Damiano by R. A. MacAvoy Page B

evergreens now were not such an inspiring sight, for the travelers had seen nothing else since morning. The climb continued.
    By the time the shadows covered the road it had become slick, and Damiano began to fear for his lute. If he fell on the little instrument, which was only the size of a toddler’s potbelly, that would be the end of it.
    He did fall, injuring his right hand but not the lute. As he was a witch, and therefore left-handed, he thanked God for small favors, but the fall let him know he could not go on through the night.
    The sun had failed when Damiano saw a wink of yellow light at the top of the slope to the right of the road. In his state of weariness he stared dumbly at it. “What could that be?” he mumbled to the world in general.
    â€œIt’s sausage,” answered Macchiata promptly. “And three people. Men. With an oil lamp. And wine.”
    Damiano gaped in amazement. “You learned all that by smelling?”
    Macchiata wagged her tail, but her nose pointed like a lodestone toward the glimmer of light. “My nose gets better when I’m hungry.
    â€œCan we go say hello, Master?”
    Damiano chuckled at her greedy eagerness, but he didn’t feel so different himself. It was the thought of fire, however, that drew him. He found himself shivering under his wool and fur. “They may be Pardo’s soldiers,” he said uncertainly, but he stepped toward the light as he spoke.
    â€œNo. Not soldiers,” answered Macchiata with authority. “They don’t smell like soldiers.”
    Damiano didn’t question her statement. He followed the dog up the slope, climbing with his toes and one bruised hand, while his left hand dug the staff in behind him.
    He came close enough to recognize the stone hut that marked the meeting of the North Road and the west, and which had held a guard in his great-grandfather’s day, before the house of Savoy had made the land safe. Then it had become a traveler’s shelter. Now, perhaps the new ruler of the Piedmont would open the guardhouse again, at least until Amadeus VI drove him away.
    Damiano stepped closer, brushing snow from his trousers as quietly as he could.
    There were two windows overlooking the North Road. One was dark, being stuffed against the cold with rags and scraps of firewood, along with a single, soleless leather boot. The other window was smaller and had panes of cow’s horn. It was through this window that light was pouring.
    In the amber glow Damiano stood, gripping his staff in both hands. “Mirabile! Videāmus,” he whispered. “Let us see.”
    And he saw three men, as Macchiata had said. All of them were his age, or thereabouts. They were not soldiers; they wore clothes of fashion, though these were time-stained and not of the best. From their belts hung the jeweled, effete daggers of the young bravo, yet all three had taken the clerical tonsure. Damiano smiled, hearing French laced with Latin: the speech of students. Damiano spoke a passable French.
    The staff throbbed in his hand—a reminder from his instincts to himself to be careful. These were not three Poverelli of Francesco, to be sure, whatever their clerical bent. Since the Holy Father had moved to Avignon, it seemed all of Provence had adopted the styles of the Church, saints and sinners alike. And these fellows had been drinking.
    But still, they were students, and what else was Damiano? The brotherhood of students was as close as that which existed in any cloister, and more entertaining besides. Damiano knocked his damaged knuckles against the wooden door, while Macchiata whined in her most placatory manner.
    What had been boisterous conversation became silence. “Qui?” called a voice, and then in broken Italian, “Who there?”
    â€œNaught but a traveling student,” answered Damiano in Latin. “And his dog.”
    More silence followed, and then a scraping. The door opened,