The Enterprise of Death (21 page)

“Leaving aside that not all evil is simple self-interest gone awry, would you admit then that something so unnatural as raising
the dead is evil, and you have much to atone for?” Manuel asked cautiously.

“I have much to atone for, but I don’t think necromancy is intrinsically good, evil, or unnatural. Much of what is natural seems more than to the ignorant.”

“The first time I saw a gun fired I nearly shat myself,” admitted Manuel, “but that’s simple alchemy!”

“Simple.” Awa nodded. “Doing what I do is quite simple, I assure you.”

The artist was relieved to discover that his wrist was not nearly so injured as he had initially thought, and after a few days of drinking her special broth he could barely remember which arm he had hurt. Other aspects of her witchiness were taking more getting used to. Manuel’s legs had locked up and his jaw had hung open like a busted trap when he noticed that one of her bare feet left cloven hoofprints in the muddy road, and when she lightly informed him that this had always been the case and he had just failed to notice on the march out from von Stein’s camp he gave a little squeal of disbelief. Then she had bent over and made a bit of loose string appear between her fingers, her left foot instantly replaced with that of a goat. Manuel had nearly fainted, but when he recovered he wished to paint her more than ever, he
needed
to paint her. Out of the question, said Awa, secretly delighted.

“So there I am,” Manuel said conspiratorially, though theirs was the only fire for many leagues on that cool spring night. “Falling-down drunk, with the abbot walking around my studio. If I’d been sober I’d have told him I was ill and he should come back the next day, but if I’d been sober I wouldn’t’ve needed him to come back, would I? Normally Katharina, my wife, would’ve run’em off, but if she’d been there she wouldn’t’ve let me get so drunk, either, would she? So in he’s come, middle of the day, wanting to see my work fore the commission gets under way.”

“So when your wife’s not around you just get drunk all the time?” Awa asked, more than a little in the staggering way herself. They had reached their last four skins and opted to have a proper occasion with them instead of sipping the vinegary swill for the rest of their journey. “Very responsible.”

“It’s not like that!” Manuel protested. “I was celebrating the commission, wasn’t I? And the brandy was stiffer than I’d thought, and I’d been too excited to break the fast fore meeting the abbot that morn, and afterwards I’d needed a drink, and there he was, no more’n an hour or two after I’d left his abbey, sneeeeakin in like some white mouser fattened on a night’s rattin.”

“Mouser? Rattin?”

“Mouser’s a cat, isn’t she?” said Manuel. “Called such because they go ratting … eating rats. Mice? Mouse? Mouser?”

“You’re doing it again!” Awa guffawed, her honest laughter still grating and harsh from neglect. “You and your animals!”

“Can I finish?!” Manuel shouted in mock indignation. “Can I finish?!”

“Finish, finish.” Awa waved him on. “Tell me about how the abbot had a friend who was a snake, or maybe a fish, and the Pope who’s an owl, or the dog-priests or whatever.”

“Thank you, m’lady.” Manuel bowed so low he nearly singed the feather in his cap on their roaring bonfire. “So the abbot.”

“The cat abbot. Cabbot?”

“The same. So in he comes, and I’m too slanted to protest or send’em off, and I start showin’em around. So—if you had an abbot in your studio what’s brimming with pictures of saints being martyred and angels and biblical scenes and even antique scenes of mythology and all, what do you think’d be the first thing I show’em?”

“What’s the commission supposed to be?” Awa asked after giving the question far more thought than it deserved.

“Conversion of Constantine. He’s an old emperor. Was pagan, went straight.”

“Oh. Something from his book, then? You said you had biblical pictures, right?”

“Sure.” Manuel nodded. “Lots of it. But you agree then, dear friend, that maybe showin the abbot of my fucking local job my personal collection of
nude women
might not’ve been the keenest idea I’ve struck on?”

“Manuel,” said Awa, setting her skin down and blearily trying to meet his erratic gaze. “The two ladies I’ve seen of yours are the finest, best things I’ve ever seen. I think you should show anyone who will look, I think you should show the world, I think … yes, yes, show him the naked women. Why not?”

“He’s the abbot,” Manuel protested. “He might catch a peek around the baths, sure, but vows of chastity! He’s sworn off it, hasn’t he? And I’m not talking tasteful religious pieces with a little tit, either, I’m talking raw stuff, vivid.”

“What’s the matter with vivid?” said Awa defensively. “You say your god’s an artist, and if I were to agree with your beliefs I’d say the finest of all his pieces is women. Some of them, anyway.”

“And you’ll hear no disagreements from me on that,” said Manuel, trying to maneuver back to his story. “The one I made for Bernardo, though, is tame compared to some of my private pieces. I’m talking top-to-bottom,
vivid
detail. Things an abbot shouldn’t be interested in.”

“Why not? If you say—”

“Can I finish? Thank you.” Manuel sighed, too drunk to acknowledge or care that his story was more or less ruined. “So I show’em the nudes, lasses spreading their legs, pushing their chests up, bottoms out, you name it. And he’s makin these noises in his throat like—”

“Like a sheepdog! Like a sparrow! Like a—”

“Like a angry abbot, damn it! Like a really furious abbot, alright!?”

Her laughter was punctuated with a sound that might have been “alright.”

“And then … bam! I’m sober as a churchm—I’m sober as he is, dead sober, well, not really
sober
sober, but a helluva lot more sober than I’ve been, and I realize what I’ve done but there’s
nothing
for it and he’s turning bright red and he’s shakin and then I stop worryin bout losing the commission because he’s about to keel over dead of shock, and then I’ll have a dead abbot on my hands and …”

“And?” Awa said when Manuel did not continue. “And what?”

“And”—Manuel grinned—“and he turns to me, and says,
My boy, I’ll buy the lot
!”

“Oh, Manuel,” said Awa, suddenly feeling more sober than she actually was. “Your art won him over! That’s, that’s so … it’s so wonderful!”

“Well.” Manuel deflated a bit. “
I
thought it was funny. Cause … cause I thought he was horrified? But he was really just excited? Abbots aren’t supposed to be interested in women.”

“I still don’t see why not,” said Awa, and, picking up on his disappointment, she added, “And it’s funny, too, really it is, it’s just kind of beautiful, too, isn’t it? Not even him who’s supposed to go without to please his god can resist your ladies!”

“Yeah?” Manuel blinked at her.

“Yes! You didn’t sell them all, did you? I’d love to see your vivid ones, Manuel, I’d love it so much!” Awa had gotten to her feet.

“Well, I sold those,” said Manuel, “but I’ve got loads more, and yeah, once I go home you should visit Bern, I’ll show you all my ladies.”

“Yes!” Awa spun around on her invisible hoof. “Pretty, pretty! I love your ladies, Manuel!”

“I’ve got one in my pack of Katharina, I think you saw her when I, when I …”

“Was dead? I did indeed, Niklaus Manuel Deutsch of Bern, and I tell you now, on my word, I did not know one could fall in love with a picture before seeing her, and the smaller one I kept. I wanted to press the plank to my lips and …” Awa stopped spinning. She knew from her tutor’s nigh-endless ridicule what men thought of women who liked other women, and for all his open-minded qualities Manuel might—

“You like,
like
girls? Like I do?” Manuel blinked. “Ohhhhhhhh. I see. I do.”

“You do?” Awa gnawed the inside of her cheek.

“I do,” said Manuel. “My friend Monique’s, er, lady-minded, too. Likes girls, I mean. So that’s, you know, not a big deal. To me. Most women, right, and men, they don’t get it, but yeah. Women
are
beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Awa said, amazed yet again by her fabulous friend. She might cry, and of course as soon as she thought that her eyes started in with their old dampening.

“And I’ll pass on the compliment to my wife.” Manuel frowned at his empty skin, and seeing Awa’s confused expression said, “The model. For the bigger one? Curly hair. Katharina. Don’t use her for the commissions, she asked me not to, the one I did for Bernardo’s a pretty little whore was with us just fore we hit Lombardy. Can’t recollect her name but she was decent enough a subject.
She’d
make a good Salome, yes indeed …”

Awa had stopped paying attention, too guilt-ridden over her amorous thoughts regarding Manuel’s wife. She had nearly taken matters in hand while looking at the portrait, and with the artist—and husband—lying behind her watching, a little dead and powerless to speak. Awa imagined herself sliding her hand down the trousers she had stolen from the dead Bernardo and
shuddered—could they have ever been friends if she had done that, if he had seen what a nasty little beast she was? Could she—

“What?” Awa’s mouth said, capturing the attention of her mind. He had said something.

“I said,” Manuel repeated, “I’ll introduce you to Monique. My friend? She likes whores but I always imagined that’s cause they’re more inclined to keep secrets and play different. Never know, you two might hit it off—”

“No thanks,” Awa said quickly.

“Already got someone?” “No!”

“Oh,” said Manuel, finally appreciating that he had hit a nerve. “Well, you know, if you change your mind …”

They stood together by the fire for some time, utterly missing the many opportunities to look into one another’s eyes and cast aside their old loves, the myriad chances to at least see if they enjoyed the taste of one another’s wine-stained lips, and eventually they made their beds and lay down beside one another. Manuel fell asleep first, snoring loudly, which meant the first watch fell to Awa. For all her earlier anxiety she had no compunction against fishing out the small sketch of the whore she had taken from Bernardo’s satchel and creeping just far enough into the underbrush to be out of sight while still being able to clearly see the image. She enjoyed herself a bit there, and with some effort was able to keep the memory of Omorose from souring things until she was done.

The von Stein problem came to occupy more and more of Manuel’s thoughts as they neared the end of their short journey together. Assassinating the man was, while delectably appealing, out of the question—his guards even followed him to the privy. He would also expect Manuel to try something, and would have taken measures. The man was, in a word, a shit, but he had not made his reputation and fortune by being negligent or deficient
in his tactics, be they the stratagem of the actual battlefield or the political arena.

Manuel the martyr pressed on down the road, and when they hit the river where they were to part ways he generously offered to escort Awa back to the very spot where she had been abducted. Awa was more than happy to accept, and so upriver they went as Manuel’s brow grew ever moister. Every bole in every tree looked like a tortured saint, every ray of sunshine cutting through the gnarled canopy overhead reminding him of the judgment awaiting him. He really ought to put himself on a plank before meeting von Stein, and then entrust Awa with returning it to his wife. Yes, that was quite good, actually, and—

“This is it,” said Awa, breaking away from the river and cutting between two willows that hunched low on the bank like overladen gleaners. “Back in here. Yes, there’s my old tunic.”

Manuel saw what must be her old clothes trampled down in the sandy soil and followed her to the place where she had decided to give up on ever finding the necromancer’s book. Two obvious graves were on the edge of the clearing but he did not inquire, instead turning his attention to the pile of dead limbs and logs stacked in the center of the clearing. Awa knelt beside it and then crawled into the heap of twisted, dry wood until only her feet jutted out. Then she backed out, a clutch of round stones in her fist, and after rooting around on the other side of the woodpile she picked up a nice-looking wooden box and into this she deposited her rocks. Witch business did not bear prying into, by Manuel’s thinking, but then she looked up at him and smiled sheepishly.

“I was going to let them go. I still will, before he takes me, but the hassle we had getting your flint working these last nights convinced me I might have use for them yet. Ah!” Awa noticed her old satchel hanging from the goat willow where she had left it, and loosening the straps she saw that the leather pack had kept her extra clothes dry. She quickly stripped off her stolen trousers
and shirt and changed back into her worn leggings and tunic, Manuel blushing but not looking away. He had his obligations as an artist, after all.

“So this is it, eh?” Manuel said after they had eaten the rest of her meat for lunch. “You go your way and I go mine.”

“Yes,” said Awa, hopefully adding, “If you’re sure you don’t need my help in dealing with your master.”

“I’ve got that worked out,” Manuel lied.

“Good,” said Awa, and glancing at the ibex-horn dagger she had retrieved from her old pack and fixed to her belt, she took the stiletto she had taken from Manuel during her escape and handed it back to its owner. “It was my pleasure to use your blade, Niklaus Manuel Deutsch of Bern.”