Damiano's Lute by R. A. MacAvoy Page B

himself toward the light.
    The air of the street was pleasant, being sullied only by smoke. “Dami Delstrego, you must stop crying,” he growled to himself, blinking and blundering across the court. “You mozzarella! Someone will see you in a moment.”
    Was it fear or pity that clutched his windpipe? He could not tell. He had not felt so shaken since leaving the Piedmont. Since before that. Since…
    He remembered the crack of his staff breaking and the terrible sense of falling, falling. He remembered Saara’s glorious face, and all the rest of the world going gray.
    Damiano resolved to get out of this fearsome town, if he had to inch up the stuccoed wall.
    And speaking of getting out, where had he left Festilligambe?
    Though Petit Comtois lay not far from the High Pass, and was in construction similar to the stone towns of Piedmont that bore Damiano, it was French enough to be confusing to him. The streets were narrow, very narrow, and they wound like ivy. The buildings were not as high as the square towers of Italy, but they tended to spread out sideways, sometimes blocking the road. And though he could read langue d’oc passably, there were no signs to be seen.
    There had been an alley with a flight of stairs, where he had to leave the horse. Was this it? It was dark enough, and the burning houses were to his right, as they should be. He danced down three worn blocks of granite and on to something soft.
    Staggering back, Damiano almost dropped his lute. But it was not a dead man. It was a dead rat. He went more cautiously down to the next street.
    There—down at the far end of the street—that was a horse. Damiano sprinted under sunlit skies, and over a pale, packed-earth street. The beast came around the corner. It was attached to a wagon. That lumbering, round thing was not Festilligambe. It was gray, and its neck, thick as the Barbish gelding’s loin, arced in a half-circle. It regarded the panting human with kindly unsurprise.
    â€œHah! Welcome again, Monsieur Delstrego,” said an unpleasantly familiar voice from atop the wagon. The villager, who was not now singing, held the slack reins in one hand. “Do you like my stallion? He is no racehorse, certainly, but he is of the ancient Comtois line.He will pull weight all day, and when he is done with his life’s work, there is no better eating!”
    Damiano flinched as though the man had suggested eating his own children. “My horse! What have you done with him? You haven’t…”
    The villager’s laughter was merry and unperturbed. He wiped his nose against his sleeve. “Oh, you Italians are excitable! Don’t worry, monsieur. There is no hunger in Pe’Comtois, that we should slaughter your little pony. He is well, probably better than he has been in a while, since he is eating oats and barley. We have fodder to spare.”
    At this news Damiano felt more alarm than gratitude. “Oats and barley! He hasn’t had anything like that since January. You will colic him. Take me to him at once!”
    The wagoner only snorted. “All in good time, monsieur. I have my little duties first. I must take a little drive outside the wall, and…”
    â€œThe gate will open for you?”
    The answering grin was a shade contemptuous. “Oh, they will open for me all right. Come along, musician, and entertain me on my way.”
    Damiano was torn between his desire to flee the stricken town and his concern for the gelding, which if permitted would certainly eat itself to disaster. But the townsman knew where Festilligambe was, and Damiano did not. He waited for no second invitation.
    The wagon was so heavy it scarcely shifted under his weight. Damiano sat his lute on his lap and looked over his shoulder.
    A large oilcloth covered a load of many bumps and prominences, some of which were long, and some round as a ball. One lump was quite unmistakably an elbow.
    â€œI take my little