Thorn by Fred Saberhagen (reading like a writer TXT) 📕

I want a man who has never seen her to be able to recognize her when he does, once he has studied one of your sketches.”

      Leonardo was pinning up a small sheet of paper on the small easel he had brought with him. “Yes, I think I can do that, provided the man who looks has good eyes to see.”

      He began to draw. I, having learned how sometimes good artisans were bothered by close observation, moved away to look out of the window into the courtyard.

      “Have you ever seen the woman again in the flesh?” I asked, as casually as possible. I had not forgotten that only this young artisan’s tip had enabled me to locate Helen the first time around.

      “No, signore,” the boy answered. But there was something in his voice that made me turn back to look at him. I found him regarding me in that calculating, almost robotic way of his. Then he added: “But I have seen Perugino since then.”

      “Perugino.” It took me a few moments to recall where I had heard that name before. Yes, Verrocchio had spoken it, at some point during at least one of my visits to his place of business a year ago. “Perugino was the bearded apprentice, in your master’s studio last summer?”

      “He had shaved, the last time I saw him.”

      “And where was that? And when?”

      “I saw him here in Florence. About six months ago. But since then I have heard that he has gone to Rome, to paint some murals in a church there. Which church I do not know.” Leonardo looked at me for a moment longer, then turned back to his work.

      I turned back to the window again. I found one hand, knuckles white, wrist shaking, clutching my dagger’s hilt. Dolt that I was! not to have known. But still I could not believe that a king’s sister could have left me for a mere artist.

      Before my eyes in imagination, I brought the face of the bearded one, clear as my memory could focus it. Now I could remember how that countenance had looked when I first brought the rescued Helen into the studio—the very place where he had first brought her to be a model. Confused, stunned, displaying a strange mixture of emotions. Somehow I had got the impression that Perugino had first met her in some Florentine tavern. But what had Morsino said? … an attractive girl, of diminutive stature, recently arrived … in the company of a troop of traveling players, or an itinerant artist, or something of that kind…

      And Matthias, earlier. Something about an artisan. How his sister had actually run off with one. If she could do such a thing when a Sforza wedding was in prospect, then why not as the bride of a Drakulya?

      …and again, just after the wedding ceremony, Perugino handing her an armful of flowers. How had he looked, then? Could I trust my memory to tell me? And she…

      It was still almost impossible to believe. I turned away from the window again. “Leonardo,” I called softly. In my greatest angers I maintain full control of myself and my behavior. “Be plain. You are telling me that she ran off with this Perugino.”

      “It is nothing to me, signore. I do not wish to become involved. But yes, I think that is what happened.”

      “I see. And has this matter been discussed at the studio?”

      He hesitated. “Not really. Not much. I think we all guessed, last year, what had happened. Perugino quit the studio a little while after you left for Pisa. But you were gone. There was no way to tell you anything. Signore Lorenzo did not come round again to the studio for a long time.”

      “I see.” No one wanted to get involved, really. I supposed that that was natural enough.

      Now I thought that the youngster was suddenly afraid of me, perhaps wishing that he had kept quiet. Still his hand sketched steadily enough. He unpinned one paper from his easel and put up another. He was working quickly, already there appeared to be several finished preliminary sketches.

      I was about to speak, when I glanced down at them. To study the topmost paper better, I picked it up. It showed the essential lines of the Magdalen’s face, angelically done, the key to the face captured, just as I had wished.

      Again I was about to speak when the corner of another drawing, at the very bottom of the small pile, caught my eye. I pulled it out. It was every bit as well drawn, but a grotesque.

      It was a male countenance, set in an expression, almost a mask, of insane rage. I needed a moment to realize that I was holding a caricature of my own face.

Chapter Fifteen

      Rage augments strength, and sometimes cunning and the will as well. If one can harness it properly, and take the time to seek out tools, and improvise means, then eventually if one has eyes that see in virtual darkness, in a matter of only a few hours perhaps, the door of even a heavy wall safe can be seen swung back, with its great lock reduced to hanging wreckage. Success had been greatly aided by the ability to work on both sides of the door alternately. And now the cans of films and containers of tapes could be brought out. It was something to do, somewhere to start; and it had become necessary now to make a start at once.

      Electric power to the Seabright mansion had recently been shut off, a difficulty overcome by some attention to the main. Dorlan and his wife had also departed by the morning after the bombing, which was a help.

      The laboratory tucked away in the mansion’s lowest level was equipped with projection devices of all kinds, and these when sworn at properly in medieval tongues were at last persuaded to function properly. The private show, sans titles, soundtrack, or any other frills, began.

      At first glance the star of the show, an enormous fat