On the Isle of Sound and Wonder (19 page)

“Do you speak?” he wondered aloud.

“Yes, my lord,” it answered, its voice similar to the mech-butler upstairs.

“Do you have a name?”

The short mech tipped his head to one side a little. “The master calls me Gonzo.”

Dante held back a laugh of surprise. “After the children’s story?” Gonzo was the name of a fool in a fairy tale, whose hunger was so insatiable that he was able to eat his own body as easily as though it were a plate of pasta.

“I do not know if that is the reason why,” Gonzo went on, “but it is a reasonable hypothesis, my lord.”

“You know me?”

“Duke Dante Fiorente, Lord of Neapolis and trusted friend of the king, His Royal Highness Alanno Civitelli, First of His Name.”

Dante raised his brows. The little mech’s ease and humble tone of voice were somehow endearing. The round face reminded Dante of the masks in commedia dell’arte.
He
’
s no Arlecchino,
thought Dante, impressed by the mech’s ease of speech.
He
’
s hardly a hungry fool. He
’
s much more the Pedrolino—something of a thoughtful, sad clown about his features.
Oddly, Dante felt a strain of interest in the peculiar contraption.

“Aren’t you a little short for a guardsman?”

Gonzo drew up to its full height—five foot three, if Dante had to guess—and its odd brass eyebrows slanted upwards even further. “I wasn’t made for their jobs, my lord,” said the mech, almost indignantly.

“Well, then? What exactly do you do?”

“Nothing much, my lord. The master doesn’t have much use of me now that he has upgraded the model.” Gonzo shrank back down again to its hunched, rotund posture, and peered up at him. “But I do excel in chess and all manner of puzzles. And I can recite
Paradise Lost.
”

“You’ve read
Paradise Lost?
”

Gonzo folded its flat, hinged hands primly. “I liked it.”

“Maestro,” Dante called, turning and moving toward the inventor and the king at the easel. “I am much impressed with your craftsmanship. What would the little round one cost?”

Garriley removed his spectacles and squinted at Dante shrewdly. “Well, my lord, I am very pleased you like it so well, but I hadn’t planned on selling him.”

“What purpose does he serve?” Dante used his most easy tone, and his most calm, assuring smile.

“He is . . .” Garriley hesitated, and then shifted his tone to one of curiosity. “What would you have him for, my lord?”

Alanno crossed his arms. “Yes, Dante, what do you want with him? If these were hounds, he’d certainly be the runt of the litter.” He chuckled.

Dante shrugged. “He says he can recite
Paradise Lost
and play chess. He’d be such a charm about the court, don’t you think? I want to see what else he can learn.”

“Chess, you say?” Alanno rubbed at his chin. “I’d bet he’s a dash hand at memorizing strategies, then.”

Dante could practically hear the wheels turning in Alanno’s mind. “I should think so. I’d expect he’s a fine example of a balanced, objective opinion.”

Alanno twisted his mouth up in thought. Garriley stared at Dante, a thin smile on his lips. At last, the king nodded. “All right!” he cried. “We’ll take him, too.”

Garriley did not lift his eyes from Dante, but gave a slight bow. “As you wish, Your Highness. Shall we pause for lunch?”

The king and the inventor moved past him, and Dante turned to find the short mech was shuffling toward him. “You’ll be an excellent counterweight,” he said, pleased at himself.
If Alanno is clamoring for conflict, he’ll need more than just flatterers at the council table.

Gonzo lifted his round chin a little and recited:

“I will place within them as a guide

My umpire Conscience, whom if they will hear,

Light after light well us
’
d they shall attain,

And to the end persisting, safe arrive.
”

Dante smiled. “Perfect.”

“No more stalling,” Torsione admonished. “Truth or taxes?”

“All right,” Bastiano chuckled. “Truth, then.”

Torsione considered his options, leaning on the hearty branch Bastiano had found to serve as a crutch. His left leg pained him and was difficult to put his full weight on. He worried that it might be broken. “Hmm,” he mused. “What about Hortensia?”

Bastiano choked on his laughter. “The Duke of Skicilia’s niece?”

“The very same.”

“Gods, no!” Bastiano shook his head so fervently that little droplets of perspiration flew from his temples. “What an awful match! How could you be so cruel, Tor?”

It hadn’t taken long for the two men to get on their feet, combing slowly through the forest on the island, looking for food and hopefully fresh water, or civilization of some kind. To pass the time, they had been trading truth and taxes, telling tales and making bets on things they would or wouldn’t do when they got home. It wasn’t much, but it kept them talking, and Torsione always liked to make Bastiano blush.

“Hortensia is a very becoming woman,” insisted Torsione, keeping his smirk at bay. “Except for the mole, she’s really very lovely.”

“I wasn’t talking about the mole. I think it’s a terrible match, that’s all,” Bas recovered quickly, holding a low branch aside for Torsione.

“Why? Are not her features comely? Is not her dowry worthy? Is her nature not sweet, her accomplishments not impressive?” Torsione went on. “I find her a well-rounded woman in many areas.”

“Hortensia is a very lovely person.” Bas seemed embarrassed, a color blooming in his cheeks which Torsione thought rather handsome.

“She would be a fine wife to either of us. What could possibly be your objection?”

“She isn’t . . . inclined to like us,” Bas fumbled.

Torsione paused, leaning on the crutch, and looked back at him with innocently raised brows. “Speak for yourself,” he snorted. “I’m utterly capable of that level of seduction, and you know it.”

Bas fidgeted with a leaf between his fingers, his sunburn blending with his blush. “No, no, I mean she’s . . . she likes women.”

Torsione knew that, of course. He feigned surprise, though, for Bastiano’s sake, and looked away from him, as though in disbelief. “Really?” he murmured. “I mean, are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Bas gingerly. “We danced at Coralina’s birthday last year, since everyone had been trying to get us in the same room for months, and she told me. Well, she told me after we’d danced and had several glasses of wine. She had her eyes on Lady Leontes.”

“Well, that’s certainly something. Was your pride quite hurt by her rejection?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” gushed Bas. “It was a bit of a relief.”

“Relief?”

“Yes!” Bas’ mouth caught up to him, and he hesitated. Torsione imagined Bastiano’s little rabbit heart pounding, his blue eyes round and anxious. “I, ah . . . wasn’t terribly keen on her. No chemistry, you know. Can’t be taught.”

Torsione stopped abruptly and turned about quickly enough to be nose to nose with Bastiano. “Of course it can be taught,” he purred. “I was top of my class in chemistry, you know.”

Bas gulped. “Were you?”

“Can’t you tell?” Torsione kept his expression as serious as he could, though he wanted to laugh as Bas squirmed silently for a moment.

“I . . . this is no time for your teasing,” said Bastiano. “Shipwrecked on an island, and you’re being just as much of a creep as you were at home.” He smiled cheerfully and gave his friend a jaunty jab to the shoulder, stepping around him to keep walking. “It’s my turn, isn’t it?”

Torsione felt oddly disappointed that Bas had evaded him. He hadn’t meant anything by it but to make him blush again, but there had been a little fizzle of something there, something peculiar between them that Torsione had always thought to be—what, fictional? They had argued and quipped and sparred verbally all their lives, and Bastiano had always been the more sensitive of the two, but it never occurred to Torsione that the blushes and flustered laughter were worth anything.

“Truth,” said Torsione challengingly.

“Hum,” Bas mused. “The most scandalous conquest you’ve ever had?”

He bit back his immediate reply—
the Empress of Chineh
’
s sister—
and quietly answered, “Hasn’t happened yet.”

Bastiano made a sound of disbelief, but did not look back. “Come on, the truth. That’s the rule!”

“Rules! Rules? Here?” Torsione scoffed. “Desert island, Bastiano. Hardly the place for rules.”

“Don’t you silver-tongue your way out of this game! I know you better than that. Just because you don’t want to answer doesn’t mean you’re allowed to stray from the task at hand.”

Torsione paused to look behind them. “Did you hear something?”

“Very coy of you. No, I didn’t. Nothing but the sound of your cowardice!” Bas laughed.

He thinks he
’
s bested me this round,
thought Torsione, but he was still listening to the forest around them. The hum of insects, the song of birds, the breeze in the leaves of the canopy above them. . . . 
Nothing unusual here.
But Torsione felt with certainty that they were being watched.

“Tor!” Bastiano was several yards ahead of him now. “My gods, come and see!”

He hurried to meet him, his uneven strides aided awkwardly by the makeshift crutch. Just ahead of them was a clearing, shady and cool, and at the center of it was the most unbelievable banquet table Torsione had ever seen. Even in all his days of diplomatic ventures and social enterprises, those feasts were put to shame, dissolving to dust in the corner of his memory as he took in the table before them.

Mountainous platters of fresh fruit rose up between dishes of roast pork, turkey, beef, and venison. Enormous soup tureens balanced out broad salad bowls, and trays of bread, fine cheeses, and vegetables were arranged in circles around the larger dishes. A goodly number of wine casks seemed to sprout up like sapling trees from the tabletop, and there was a glimmering freshness to the whole view, as though it had just now been arranged, the finishing touches clean and still new.

It can
’
t be,
thought Torsione.
Where could it possibly have come from?

“It smells amazing,” whispered Bastiano.

“It does,” muttered Torsione, and his stomach groaned. “I’m so thirsty that I had all but forgotten how hungry I am.” Bastiano was moving through the line of trees toward the table with a light step, as though his burdens had been lifted. He smiled giddily in relief.

“Bas, wait, don’t!” Torsione reached for him, his fingers just missing the sleeve of Bas’ shirt. “The stories,” he added, stumbling on the words.

“Stories?” Bastiano hesitated in confusion. He was already halfway to the table.

“Yes. Stories. The old stories, the fairy tales? A magical banquet appears, although the hero has been warned to touch nothing.”

“But we haven’t been warned to touch nothing,” Bastiano protested. “And this isn’t a fairytale, Tor. We’re stranded and starving. This means there’s someone here! Someone else lives on this island, and they either prepared this for us or they did it for themselves. In either case, we should eat what we can and thank them later.” He moved toward the end of the table for the nearest cask of wine.

“Wait,” called Torsione thinly, but as soon as Bas uncorked the bottle and began to drink, his hesitation evaporated entirely. He moved as quickly as his pathetic crutch could carry him and fell forward, catching himself on the table’s edge and grabbing a handful of carved, glazed beef. He took the first bite and his mind exploded into color and ecstasy; it was delicious. Tears began to gather in his eyes as he shoveled food into his mouth, chewing and swallowing faster than ever before in his life. Cheese and fresh bread and soft pears and warm quiche—it was utterly divine.

As quickly as he could bring the food to his mouth, Torsione was scooping up more again with his other hand: handfuls of dates, sugar peas, wild strawberries, a ladleful of stew, a chunk of soft buttery bread. Glancing down the table to his right revealed towering plates of desserts, and Bastiano standing with one hand on the table to steady himself. He chugged down wine, which spilled from the corners of his mouth and ran rivers down his throat.

Something’s wrong.
The thought flashed through Torsione’s mind but he couldn’t hang onto it. He tore into a perfectly golden-skinned turkey leg, and instead of savory ecstasy, he felt a sudden stab of realization in his gut.
The wine is clear. It’s not red or white, it’s not even rosé, it’s . . . invisible.
Bastiano’s shirtfront wasn’t even damp, save for his own sweat.

Torsione stopped chewing, the bits of turkey tumbling from his lips. His thoughts were beginning to catch up with his body, his stomach still groaning at the incredible smells that wafted up from the banquet table. He looked down. Bits of the food he’d been shoveling into his mouth piled at his feet, broken and mashed. His hunger swelled with the sudden discovery.
I haven’t eaten a thing.