After several moments passed, Offal-Eater lifted his head. In a hoarse, weary voice, he said, “Thank you, Rosencrantz. Thank you, Guildenstern.”
“That is not my name,” Mordaunt said.
“Nor mine.” Truss frowned.
But Offal-Eater said no more. He lay his head back down again on the dirt floor. His eyes closed, and he sank immediately into what seemed, to Mordaunt, a perversely restful slumber. That left only him and Truss to watch in stunned amazement, saying no more to each other, either, for what they had witnessed was beyond words.
In that silence, which was not even broken by the hum of blackflies—they had all fled with the vanishment of the rubbish—Mordaunt began to think. He was remembering that Offal-Eater had spoken, earlier, of aforbidden delicacy.
I have tasted a morsel of it but once. I fear I shall never taste it again, though it is the only thing that sustains me, that fills my belly, that grafts fat to these horrible bones.
And now, having seen Offal-Eater consume near everything that Mordaunt could possibly imagine, and understanding that there was nothing so vile that he wouldnotconsume, Mordaunt thought he knew what thatforbidden delicacywas.
VIII
Parts Are Chosen
Agnes’s dreams did not fully leave her, even upon waking. She found her limbs tangled in the sheets, which were cold and damp, and then could not make herself rise; flat on her back, lying awake as if in the throes of a fever, she felt a strange and perverse urge to stay there. If this was indeed guilt, then perhaps she could sweat it out. It would take only time, grueling and miserable moment by moment—but the moments would pass anyway.
Only she could not stay, because she had business in the castle. She would finish the writing of the masque today, and then she would marshal up the actors from among the inhabitants of the Outer Wall. Escorted by members of the Dolorous Guard for her safety, Agnes would select the most beauteous, the most refined in their manner, as refined as a peasant could be. She would take them up with her into Castle Crudele and dress them in costume and teach them their lines; she hoped she might find some who could read. And it would be a glorious spectacle, one of whimsy and passion and intrigue, every second a vivid, colored thing, expelling all vulgar thoughts from the audience of nobles, making them fall over themselves with newfound devotion to the Crown.
Or so Agnes hoped. She loved Liuprand and she believed she could make others love him, too. She dressed and sat down at her writing desk, picking up the quill in her right hand. The purpose of this masque was to reflect only the grand spectacle of life, none of its banal drudgeries. If there was hate, it would be matched in its ferocity by desire. If there was grief, it would be matched in its potency by joy. Her quillraced across the page. She was not that gray, wilting creature. She was—as each proud, bragging beat of her heart reminded her—alive.
And that realization, at last, chased away the thoughts of Marozia. For the rest of the morning, Agnes worked dutifully and without distraction at her task.
In the afternoon, Agnes was able to select her actors, two dozen of them, the most graceful of the inhabitants of the Outer Wall. It was a rather artless charm that most of them had, but it could be shaped and molded, made into something sophisticated. With gilded masks and passionate red paint on their lips, it might be forgotten, momentarily, that these were creatures that knewonlylife’s banal drudgeries and none of its grand dramas.
She arranged the actors in their places; she taught them their lines. She chose the silks and velvets that would be cut for their garb, all of them richly colored, with a sheen that would sparkle in the candlelight. Masks for every and every one, hiding the faces that were mundanely marked by pox scars, by pimples, by wrinkles and sunburns and the chapping of harsh winds. The actors rotely followed her instructions, never moving unless directed, standing still until their knees quaked beneath them. Agnes was quite pleased.
As the hours of the day wound on, Agnes’s pleasure turned to anticipation. With every moment that passed, as the sun lowered its belly like a large yellow beast, her excitement only grew. Indeed, when the first striations of dusky blue appeared on the horizon, her composure slipped, and she startled her actors by clapping her hands together very suddenly to dismiss them. They lumbered out of the hall, a herd of bewildered cattle. And Agnes slipped away.
Through the winding corridors, up the long and forgotten staircase, dust-cloaked, abandoned by all but two. It had been three days since their last meeting here, and Agnes’s heart ached with longing.When she arrived at the landing and pushed open the heavy, iron-gridded door, she was shocked and more shocked to see that it was not Liuprand alone who stood within.
There was another man there, or perhaps it was better that he should be called acreature.His shadow on the wall was a man’s shadow, but what cast it lacked the basic elements of humanity that would put a mind at ease. He had bones, and stretched, taut yellow flesh, but with no fat to gird and brace them. What few teeth he had were broken and would make a poor inheritance for her house. Thrasamund, Master of Eyes, would be similarly bereft with what could be found within this creature’s skull: two dull, bleary orbs, which seemed to look both everywhere and nowhere at once. His colorless hair was in patches; when he breathed, it was with a strained, labored wheezing sound, air rattling through the corroded bellows of his lungs.
Agnes was left without words. He captivated her, horribly, and commanded the attention of all her senses. She did not even notice Liuprand approaching her until he spoke.
“My love,” he said. “How I’ve missed you. How it has pained me, to spend these last evenings alone.”
“What is that?” she whispered. “There in the dark?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with.” Liuprand drew his arm around her. “Look away from him—and see what I have done.”
It was difficult, but Agnes managed to divert her gaze and take in the entirety of the room around her. The changes took her breath away. No longer was the altar massed with melted wax; it had all been scrubbed off, scraped clean, leaving shockingly fine and polished marble below. What now gave the room light was a number of torches placed along the wall, tongues of flame flicking in their braziers. But what was most impressive, most shocking, was that beside the green velvet chaise, a large tub had been constructed from brick and stone, and filled to its brim with water. Flower petals floated on its surface, lilac and protea, white orchid and hyacinth.
Agnes looked up at Liuprand. His blue eyes were shining like sunlight on the evening sea. “Do you like it?”
Agnes, who still could not speak, merely nodded. The greatest gift of all was so simple, in truth: It was to love and be loved in return.
Liuprand inclined his head toward the creature in the corner. “Go now,” he said. “I have no more need of you.”
The manlike thing raised a hand and gave an awkward, crooked wave. In his bullfrog’s moan of a voice, he said, “Farewell, Stella, hyacinth girl. Farewell, Lord Marchino.” And then he turned and scurried from the room.
Agnes frowned, unspoken question in her mouth.
“Ignore him,” Liuprand said. “He is a wretch that I found among the inhabitants of the Outer Wall. I had Pliny bring him here to perform these labors, as no one within Castle Crudele could be trusted with such a secret. This creature—this Offal-Eater, as he is called—is mad; even if he persuades anyone to listen to his ramblings, he will not be believed. It is impossible for him to reveal us.”
Slowly, Agnes nodded. And then, as Liuprand’s hand slid along her bodice, she was possessed by a fevered frenzy of passion, the strange creature all but forgotten. She tugged at the buttons of Liuprand’s shirt while he snapped the laces of her corset in a single deft tug. Her gown fell away from her. The rest of his clothes were shed soon after.
