“That is a charming myth,” Ambrosius said, “though no one of any sense credits it.”
“What of your transterrene philosophy is not a myth?” Ransome challenged. For though I in my pique had begun the questioning of Ambrosius’s transterrene pretensions, now Ransome scented blood, and was determined to finish off the quarry, all in the most pleasant, self-regarding way possible. But he was unable to continue, because at that moment a page entered, and told the duke and duchess that the dressmaker had arrived, and waited in one of the parlors.
They rose, we offered our thanks, and the party went their ways. I went in search of the steward, to give him my new address, and returning from that errand I passed by the archway leading to the parlor where their graces were meeting the dressmaker, a Master Fulke. Ransome stood partly concealed behind the arch, and on seeing me beckoned me to join him.
I stepped near the arch and was able to look into the parlor to see Fulke, with his assistants, showing their graces huge great bolts of rich fabric, embroidered silks and blazing satins, all to become new gowns for the duchess. Roundsilver spoke knowledgeably of fabrics and fashion, and his bride followed his words carefully, and looked up at him with worshipful eyes.
Ransome preened his mustaches. “His grace is playing with his new doll,” he said.
I almost said that she was a doll well worth playing with, but on consideration decided the reply too vulgar for this cultivated a setting. “It is a measure of his admiration for her,” I said instead.
He took my arm and drew me away. As we walked toward the front door, he inclined his head to me.
“You are not an old acquaintance of his grace?” he asked.
“We met on coronation day,” I said.
He adopted a confidential tone. “I advise you not to be associated too publicly with this duke.”
I cast him a glance. “May I inquire why?”
“Before the marriage,” Ransome said, “this house was infamous for the degree of vice and depravity practiced here. I cannot count the reputations that were destroyed within these walls.”
“I have seen no sign of dissipation,” said I. “Beyond the over-luxurious dinners, I mean.”
A superior smile floated across his plump, pleased features. “Her grace is still young. I have no doubt that he will corrupt her, and once again this place shall be notorious again for its wickedness. For look you.” He drew me closer. “His grace only married because of a promise he gave his mother on her deathbed. And once her grace delivers an heir, that promise is discharged, and he may return to his former way of life.”
I bridled at this advice, delivered as it was in a conceited, condescending tone, as from a superior to an inferior.
“His grace is the only man in the city who has been kind to me,” I said.
A knowing look came into his eyes. “He has marked you, then, for one of his minions. I urge you not to become one of his degenerate pack of acrobats, actors, and mincing boys.”
I found myself offended, not by the notion of the duke trying to corrupt me, but with Ransome’s confiding tone and self-congratulating manner. I stiffened.
“I believe I know how to preserve such virtue as remains to me,” I said.
“I offer a word to the wise,” said he.
“I thank you,” I said, “for the advice, insofar as it was kindly meant.” And insofar as it was a piece of malevolence, I thought, may you fly instantly into pieces.
He may have sensed this meaning, for he said nothing more. I bade farewell to Ransome at the door, and then decided, in view of wine and the great meal, that I may as well sleep till supper, when another great feast lay in store.
My path took me by one of the libraries—there were at least three, but this was the largest—and there I saw the playwright Blackwell, looking at a small volume and jotting in a notebook. I wandered in, and he glanced up without speaking. His quill continued its scribbling even though his ultramarine eyes were directed at me.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” said I.
“I’m merely performing a little exercise,” he said. His pen scratched on. “I’m translating this sonnet by Rinaldo into the tongue of the Aekoi. Pentameter into classical hexameters, and all this in a language known for its concision.”
“Not into our own language?”
“That has already been done, very well, by Sebastian.” He looked down at the paper, frowned, and finished the last lines. “That final couplet compares the beloved’s hair to russet, but the Aekoi did not have clothing made of russet.” He indicated his own russet doublet. “Russet appears to have been invented only a few centuries ago, here in Duisland. I could have invented a word, and called it russum or something, but I thought it more fair to find what an Aekoi would call such a color, so I thought of black chalcedony, which gives us calcedonius niger. Which as it happens, fits the meter rather well.”
“Russet and black are not the same,” I pointed out.
“That is why my translation is imperfect,” Blackwell said. “And some imperfection is allowable in art.” He smiled. “Perhaps even necessary.”
“Perhaps a dark shade of agate?”
“Achates densus?” He frowned down at his paper. “I think it would not serve.”
I was on the verge of suggesting zmaragdachates, but decided I’d heard quite enough of smaragds. “Achates purpureus?” I offered.
“I do not think it is quite the poet’s intention to suggest purple hair, even in so extraordinary a lady.” He put down his pen. “Well. Enough.” He looked up at me with his deep blue eyes. “Your tale of the traveler and his nymph was intriguing. I am thinking of making it a play.”
My first response was to ask, You can do that?, but an instant’s reflection told me that of course he could. Any story could be a play, or a poem, or a song, though I very much doubted whether Orlanda would care to be any of these things.
“It is but an episode,” I said.
“Your episode would make a fine first act. I should then have to invent further encounters between the traveler and the angry goddess, and fill the scenes with characters and clowns and a scattering of sub-stories. But the main question is whether the story is comedy or tragedy.”
“Need it be one or the other?” I asked. “Can it not simply be a story?”
“People don’t come to the theater for simple stories. Simple stories they can have from their grandmothers.” Blackwell looked down at his ink-stained hands. “If tragedy,” he enlarged, “the vengeful nymph would pursue the traveler, destroying his hopes and killing all he loves, until the traveler dies in a final blizzard of pentameter. Whereas in a comedy, she would be the cause of misunderstandings that would delay the joyful ending until the last act.”
“Let it be a comedy, then,” I said hopefully. In truth, I was hoping Blackwell would forget about the entire project.
I drew up a chair and sat across from the actor. “Goodman Ransome just warned me that the duke intended to debauch me.”
He was amused. “Not without your permission, I’m sure.”
“Has he such a wicked reputation?”
“Instead of going to war, looting cities, and scheming for high office, he stands as patron to poets and painters. That makes him unnatural.”
“It would make him a poor patron,” I mused, “if office were what I pursued.”
“Is it?”
“This last month I have seen little beyond men grasping for office, honors, or money. It makes office seem less desirable, somehow, that it can be held in such company.”
He smiled. “Instead, you can be debauched by the duke. I’m sure it would be exquisite and very likely musical.”