cb.imajica2-第26章

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　He　saw　the　corner　of　Gamut　Street　twenty　yards　ahead　and　slowed　his　pace　to　take　pleasure　in　the　moment　of　reunion。　There　were　innumerable　memories　awaiting　him　there；　the　mystif　among　them。　But　not　all　would　be　so　sweet；　or　so　wele。　He　would　have　to　ingest　them　carefully；　like　a　diner　with　a　delicate　stomach　ing　to　a　lavish　table。　Moderation　was　the　way。　As　soon　as　he　felt　a　surfeit；　he'd　retreat　and　return　to　the　studio　to　digest　what　he'd　learned；　let　it　strengthen　him。　Only　then　would　he　return　for　a　second　helping。　The　process　would　take　time；　he　knew；　and　time　was　of　the　essence。　But　so　was　his　sanity。　What　use　would　he　be　as　a　Reconciler　if　he　choked　on　the　past？
　With　his　heart　thumping　hard；　he　came　to　the　corner　and；　turning　it；　finally　laid　his　eyes　upon　the　sacred　street。　Perhaps；　during　his　years　of　forgetfulness；　he'd　wandered　through　these　backwaters　all　unknowing　and　seen　the　sight　before　him　now。　But　he　doubted　it。　More　likely；　his　eyes　were　seeing　Gamut　Street　for　the　first　time　in　two　centuries。　It　had　changed　scarcely　at　all；　preserved　from　the　city　planners　and　their　hammer…wielding　hordes　by　the　feits　whose　makers　were　still　rumored　here。　The　trees　planted　along　the　pavement　were　weighed　down　with　unkempt　foliage；　but　their　sap's　tang　was　sharp；　the　air　protected　from　the　fumes　of　Holborn　and　Gray's　Inn　Road　by　the　warren　of　thoroughfares　between。　Was　it　just　his　fancy；　or　was　the　tree　outside　number　28　particularly　lush；　fed　perhaps　by　a　seepage　of　magics　from　the　step　of　the　Maestro's　house？
　He　began　towards　them；　tree　and　step；　the　memories　already　returning　in　force。　He　heard　the　children　singing　behind　him；　the　song　that　had　so　tormented　him　when　the　Autarch　had　told　him　who　he　was。　Sartori；　he'd　said；　and　this　charmless　ditty；　sung　by　piping　voices；　had　e　in　pursuit　of　the　name。　He'd　loathed　it　then。　Its　melody　was　banal；　its　words　were　nonsense。　But　now　he　remembered　how　he'd　first　heard　it；　walking　along　this　very　pavement　with　the　children　in　procession　on　the　opposite　shore；　and　how　flattered　he'd　been　that　he　was　famous　enough　to　have　reached　the　lips　of　children　who　would　never　read　or　write　or；　most　probably；　reach　the　age　of　puberty。　。All　of　London　knew　who　he　was；　and　he　liked　his　fame。　He　was　talked　about　at　court；　Roxborough　said；　and　should　soon　expect　an　invitation。　People　who'd　not　so　much　as　touched　his　sleeve　were　claiming　intimate　association。
　But　there　were　still　those；　thank　God；　who　kept　an　exquisite　distance；　and　one　such　soul　had　lived；　he　remembered；　in　the　house　opposite：　a　nymph　called　Allegra　who　liked　to　sit　at　her　dressing　table　near　the　window　with　her　bodice　half　unlaced；　knowing　she　had　an　admirer　in　the　Maestro　across　the　street。　She'd　had　a　little　curly…haired　dog；　and　sometimes　in　the　evening　he'd　hear　her　piping　voice　summon　the　lucky　hound　onto　her　lap；　where　she'd　let　it　snuggle。　One　afternoon；　a　few　paces　from　where　he　stood　now；　he'd　met　the　girl　out　walking　with　her　mother　and　had　made　much　of　the　dog；　suffering　its　little　tongue　on　his　mouth　for　the　smell　of　her　sex　in　its　fur。　What　had　bee　of　that　child？　Had　she　died　a　virgin　or　grown　old　and　fat；　wondering　about　the　man　who'd　been　her　most　ardent　admirer？
　He　glanced　up　at　the　window　where　Allegra　had　sat。　No　light　burned　in　it　now。　The　house；　like　almost　all　these　buildings；　was　dark。　Sighing；　he　turned　his　gaze　towards　number　28　and；　crossing　the　street；　went　to　the　door。　It　was　locked；　of　course；　but　one　of　the　lower　windows　had　been　broken　at　some　point　and　never　repaired。　He　reached　through　the　smashed　pane　and　unlocked　it；　then　slid　the　window　up　and　himself　inside。　Slowly；　he　reminded　himself；　go　slowly。　Keep　the　flow　under　control。
　It　was　dark；　but　he'd　e　prepared　for　that　eventuality；　with　candle　and　matches。　The　flame　guttered　at　first；　and　the　room　rocked　at　its　indecision；　but　by　degrees　it　strengthened；　and　he　felt　a　sensation　he'd　not　expected　swelling　like　the　light：　pride。　In　its　time；　this；　his　house；　had　been　a　place　of　great　souls　and　great　ambition；　where　all　monplace　debate　had　been　banned。　If　you　wanted　to　talk　politics　or　tittle…tattle　you　went　to　the　coffee　house；　if　you　wanted　merce；　to　the　Exchange。　Here；　only　miracles。　Here；　only　the　rising　of　the　spirit。　And；　yes；　love；　if　it　was　pertinent　（which　it　was；　so　often）；　and　sometimes　bloodletting。　But　never　the　prosaic；　never　the　trivial。　Here　the　man　who　brought　the　strangest　tale　was　the　most　wele。　Here　every　excess　was　celebrated　if　it　brought　visions；　and　every　vision　analyzed　for　the　hints　it　held　to　the　nature　of　the　Everlasting。
　He　lifted　the　candle　and；　holding　it　high；　began　to　walk　through　the　house。　The　rooms…there　were　many…were　badly　dilapidated；　the　boards　creaking　under　his　feet；　weakened　by　rot　and　worm；　the　walls　mapping　continents　of　damp。　But　the　present　didn't　insist　upon　him　for　long。　By　the　time　he　reached　the　bottom　of　the　stairs；　memory　was　lighting　candles　everywhere；　their　luminescence　spilling　through　the　dining　room　door　and　from　the　rooms　above。　It　was　a　generous　light；　clothing　naked　walls；　putting　lush　carpets　underfoot；　and　setting　fine　furniture　on　their　pile。　Though　the　debaters　here　might　have　aspired　to　pure　spirit；　they　were　not　averse　to　forting　the　flesh　while　still　cursed　with　it。　Who　would　have　guessed；　seeing　the　modest　facade　of　the　house　from　the　street；　that　the　interior　would　be　so　finely　furnished　and　ornamented？　And　seeing　these　glories　appear；　he　heard　the　voices　of　those　who'd　wallowed　in　that　luxury。　Laughter　first；　then　vociferous　argument　from　somebody　at　the　top　of　the　stairs。　He　couldn't　see　the　debaters　yet…perhaps　his　mind；　which　he'd　instructed　in　caution；　was　holding　the　flood　back…but　he　could　put　names　to　both　of　them；　sight　unseen。　One　was　Horace　Tyrwhitt；　the　other　Isaac　Abelove。　And　the　laughter？　That　was　Joshua　Godolphin；　of　course。　He　had　a　laugh　like　the　Devil's　laugh；　full　and　throaty。
　〃e　on；　then；〃　Gentle　said　aloud　to　the　memories。　〃I'm　ready　to　see　your　faces。〃
　And　as　he　spoke；　they　came：　Tyrwhitt　on　the　stairs；　overdressed　and　overpowdered；　as　ever；　keeping　his　distance　from　Abelove　in　case　the　magpie　his　pursuer　was　nursing　flew　free。
　〃It's　bad　luck；〃　Tyrwhitt　was　protesting。　〃Birds　in　the　house　are　bad　luck！〃
　〃Luck's　for　fishermen　and　gamblers；〃　Abelove　replied。
　〃One　of　these　days　you'll　turn　a　phrase　worth　remembering；〃　Tyrwhitt　replied。　〃Just　get　the　thing　out　before　I　wring　its　neck。〃　He　turned　towards　Gentle。　〃Tell　him；　Sartori。〃
　Gentle　was　shocked　to　see　the　memory's　eyes　fix　so　acutely　upon　him。　〃It　does　no　harm；〃　he　found　himself　replying。　〃It's　one　of　God's　creatures。〃
　At　which　point　the　bird　rose　flapping　from　Abelove's　grasp；　emptying　its　bowels　as　it　did　so　on　the　man's　wig　and　face；　which　brought　a　hoot　of　laughter　from　Tyrwhitt。
　〃Now　don't　wipe　it　off；〃　he　told　Abelove　as　the　magpie　fluttered　away。　〃It's　good　luck。〃
　The　sound　of　his　laughter　brought　Joshua　Godolphin；　imperious　as　ever；　out　of　the　dining　room。　〃What's　the　row？〃
　Abelove　was　already　clattering　after　the　bird；　his　calls　merely　alarming　it　more。　It　fluttered　around　the　hallway　in　panic；　cawing　as　it　went。
　〃Open　the　damned　door！〃　Godolphin　said。　〃Let　the　bloody　thing　out！〃
　〃And　spoil　the　sport？〃　Tyrwhitt　said。
　〃If　everyone　would　but　calm　their　voices；〃　Abelove　said；　〃it　would　settle。〃
　〃Why　did　you　bring　it　in？〃　Joshua　wanted　to　know。
　〃It　was　sitting　on　the　step；〃　Abelove　replied。　〃I　thought　it　was　injured。〃
　〃It　looks　quite　well　to　me；〃　Godolphin　said；　and　turned　his　face；　ruddied　with　brandy；　towards　Gentle。　〃Maestro；〃　he　said；　inclining　his　head　a　little。　〃I'm　afraid　we　began　dinner　without　you。　e　in。　Leave　these　bird　brains　to　play。〃
　Gentle　was　crossing　to　the　dining　room　when　there　was　a　thud　behind　him；　and　he　turned　to　see　the　bird　dropping　to　the　floor　beneath　one　of　the　windows；　where　it　had　struck　the　glass。　Abelove　let　out　a　little　moan；　and　Tyrwhitt's　laughter　ceased。
　〃There　now！〃　he　said。　〃You　killed　the　thing！〃
　〃Not　me！〃　Abelove　said。
　〃You　want　to　resurrect　it？〃　Joshua　murmured　to　Gentle；　his　tone　conspiratorial。
　〃With　a　broken　neck　and　wings？〃　Gentle　mourned。　〃That　wouldn't　be　very　kind。〃
　〃But　amusing；〃　Godolphin　replied　with　mischief　in　his　puffy　eyes。
　〃I　think　not；〃　Gentle　aid；　and　saw　his　distaste　wipe　the　humor　off　Joshua's　face。　He's　a　little　afraid　of　me；　Gentle　thought；　the　power　in　me　makes　him　nervous。
　Joshua　headed　into　the　dining　room；　and　Gentle　was　about　to　step　through　the　door　after　him　when　a　young　man…eighteen　at　most；　with　a　plain；　long　face　and　chorister's　curls…came　to　his　side。
　〃Maestro？〃　he　said。
　Unlike　Joshua　and　the　others；　these　features　seemed　more　familiar　to　Gentle。　Perhaps　there　was　a　certain　modernity　in　the　languid　lidded　gaze　and　the　small；　almost　effeminate；　mouth。　He　didn't　look　that　intelligent；　in　truth；　but　his　words；　when　they　came；　were　well　turned；　despite　the　boy's　nervousness。　He　barely　dared　look　at　Sartori；　but　with　those　lids　downcast　begged　the　Maestro's　indulgence。
　〃I　wondered；　sir；　if　you　had　perhaps　considered　the　matter　of　which　we　spoke？〃
　Gentle　was　about　to　ask；　What　matter？；　when　his　tongue　replied；　his　intellect　seizing　the　memory　as　the　words　spilled　out。　〃I　know　how　eager　you　are；　Lucius。〃
　Lucius　Cobbitt　was　the　boy's　name。　At　seventeen　he　already　had　the　great　works　by　heart；　or　at　least　their　theses。　Ambitious　and　apt　at　politics；　he'd　taken　Tyrwhitt　as　a　patron　（for　what　services　only　his　bed　knew；　but　it　was　surely　a　hanging　offense）　and　had　secured　himself　a　place　in　the　house　as　a　menial。　But　he　wanted　more　than　that；　and　scarcely　an　evening　went　by　without　his　politely　plying　the　Maestro　with　coy　glances　and　pleas。
　〃I'm　more　than　eager；　sir；〃　he　said。　〃I've　studied　all　the　rituals。　I've　mapped　the　In　Ovo；　from　what　I've　read　in　Flute's　Visions。　They're　just　beginnings；　I　know；　but　I've　also　copied　all　the　known　glyphs；　and　I　have　them　by　heart。〃
　He　had　a　little　skill　as　an　artist；　too：　something　else　they　shared；　besides　ambition　and　dubious　morals。
　〃I　can　help　you；　Maestro；〃　he　was　saying。　〃You're　going　to　need　somebody　beside　you　on　the　night。〃
　〃I　mend　you　on　your　discipline；　Lucius；　but　the　Reconciliation's　a　dangerous　business。　I　can't　take　the　responsibility…〃
　〃I'll　take　that；　sir。〃
　〃Besides；　I　have　my　assistant。〃
　The　boy's　face　fell。　〃You　do？〃　he　said。
　〃Certainly。　Pie　'oh'　pah。〃
　〃You'd　trust　your　life　to　a　familiar？〃
　〃Why　shouldn't　I？〃
　〃Well；　because。。。　because　it's　not　even　human。〃
　〃That's　why　I　trust　it；　Lucius；〃　Gentle　said。　〃I'm　sorry　to　disappoint　you…〃
　〃Could　I　at　least　watch；　sir？　I'll　keep　my　distance；　I　swear；　I　swear。　Everybody　else　is　going　to　be　there。〃
　This　was　true　enough。　As　the　night　of　the　Reconciliation　approached；　the　size　of　the　audience　swelled。　His　patrons；　who'd　at　first　taken　their　oaths　of　secrecy　very　seriously；　now　sensed　triumph　and　had　bee　indiscreet。　In　hushed　and　often　embarrassed　tones　they'd　admit　to　having　invited　a　friend　or　a　relation　to　witness　the　rites；　and　who　was　he；　the　performer；　to　forbid　his　paymasters　their　moment　of　reflected　glory？　Though　he　never　gave　them　an　easy　time　when　they　made　these　confessions；　he　didn't　much　mind。　Admiration