He reaches for the pistol but the pistol is gone. He dropped it, lost it, never had it, put it in the fieldpack and then forgot. The thing on the rail speaks in its unearthly made-up language; this time, some part of Stanley understands. Now: its face. Its spectacle-lenses are lit by unborrowed interior fire.
Stanley turns and runs. He runs until his infected leg screams with pain, and he keeps running until the pain goes away. He runs until he can hear nothing but the muffled beat of his own shoes on the pavement. He runs until he can’t see straight. He runs away from the ocean and away from the moon that pulls it, from street to unfamiliar street through the mess of the centerless city, until he has no notion of where he is or how he came to be there, until he’s shaken every memory of the shoreline loose from every route that might lead back to it, until those memories connect to nothing but themselves and the book: an island of narrow tangled passageways, suspended in a void.
59
The water must be near. Each time Crivano wakes, he’s aware of gusting wind, small waves striking the base of the wall behind his head. The sound is a pleasant muddle at first—a confusion of bright splashes—but when he concentrates he can hear patterns in it, or almost-patterns: regular pulses, slightly out of phase, recalling elaborate handclap games that idle children play.
It occurs to Crivano that these unmatched pulses might conceal a larger design—one that, properly discerned, might give clues about the dimensions of the building he’s in. But it is, of course, in his temperament to think such things. He smiles, then winces as pain runs laps between his nose and chin.
He has no recollection of coming here. Most of last night is spilt quicksilver in his fingers. He can remember wielding arms in fear and anger, maiming and killing many men, fools who took courage from wine and ignorance and superior numbers and who were poorly suited to oppose a real soldier, a janissary, even an aged one like Crivano. His memories of violence are always unsettling, because in them he is never himself. The animal that looks through his eyes and moves his limbs in combat seems not to possess a memory of its own—which, he supposes, is how it comes to kill so well. The thing in him that fights is like the thing in him that fucks, or shits: he shares a body with it, but it is not he. So he tells himself.
He thinks again of Lepanto, of the Lark. His friend was never so ardent of spirit as in the weeks before the battle, never so full of song. As the fleets massed in the Gulf of Patras, every eye on the Gold and Black Eagle was upon him; every face grinned and every heart gladdened at his valor. But when the fighting began, the Lark would not shoot. He never retreated from his position on the quarterdeck, never wavered when the Turks swarmed: he pushed them back tirelessly until the moment the cannonball took him. But his arquebus went unfired till Crivano—blood-spray hissing on the overheated barrel of his own weapon—took it up. The Lark was a fine soldier, and had he survived to matriculate at Padua he would have made a marvelous physician, far better than the one Crivano has become. But he was no killer.
Crivano tries to sit up; his sore body refuses. Beneath the sheets his legs twist in inert agony, wrenched by swordsman-footwork, cramped by hours folded in Obizzo’s boat. His arms are no less distressed. He manages to drink a clay cup of water he finds beside the bed, but hasn’t enough strength to lift the pitcher and refill it. He sleeps again.
At some point a girl enters the room: a Jewess, bearing a steaming bowl of soup and a small chunk of bread. She sets these beside the pitcher, refills the cup, and departs, making no attempt to rouse Crivano. He rises to eat and drink—the soup is rich, mild, thick with goosefat—then lies down again. Nearby, perhaps in the next room, he hears a woman in the throes of carnal ecstasy and wonders if this place might be a bawdyhouse. If so, the whore on the other side of the wall is very enthusiastic, or very convincing.
When next he wakes, the light through the room’s small window has acquired the first blush of evening. He feels stronger. He sits up, drinks again—the soup-bowl has gone—and throws off the covers to stand on his trembling legs. He’s naked, bandaged extensively; he loosens his dressings to examine the wounds. Scraped right thumb. Short deep cut on his left arm. Crescent gash on his left side, haloed by a yellow-edged bruise. His ears still hiss and whine with the echo of last night’s pistolshot; his right hand and forearm ache from the jolt of the wooden grip. On the table where the soup was, Crivano finds a steel shaving-mirror—similar to his own—which he uses to check his face: blood crusted in his nostrils, a sooty bruise on his chin. The mirror shows his face in patches, blurry around the rim; it feels familiar in his hand. He realizes that it is indeed his own mirror: one his father gave him years ago, shortly before he left Cyprus. The mirror was packed in Crivano’s walnut trunk, the one that vanished from the White Eagle. How has it come to be here?