Death and the Devil

Perhaps, he thought, as his eyes captured another face, analyzed and released it, this architect would have been a man he could have talked to, a man with whom he could have shared a jug of wine and a few jokes about their fellow men. What he had seen of the cathedral under construction had inspired his respect. If it did actually represent the overall plan, he had a logical structure before him. For the ring of chapels around the apse, that steeply soaring, straining caricature of perfection, was cold. Its mathematical precision took the life out of any inspiration.

Capture, analyze, release.

A little farther on was the part of the market where offal was sold: liver, heart, and tripe, kidneys and sweetbreads. He elbowed his way through and watched the butchers as they weighed handfuls of pale white or blue-and-red-veined collops, strings, and folds, and passed them to the customer. One rummaged around in a mass of undefined entrails and pulled out a long, tangled intestine. The pile started to move, pieces slithering over each other like skinned snakes, bodies still warm and twitching. He saw the butcher’s arm plunge back into the mass, again and again, presumably the pieces on offer were too long, too short, too thick, or too thin. Again and again the man plunged his hand into the moist pile and pulled something out—

The world turned red.

He saw a man in armor, an iron claw descending and pulling something out of the body of a child, something warm, gleaming, sticky. The child was still alive. It must be making the high-pitched, unearthly shrill sound, and all about him—

His head was pounding.

Urquhart closed his eyes and pressed his fists to the sides of his head.

The image faded.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you feel well?”

He blinked. He was at the market. It was just the entrails of dead animals.

“Do you need help?”

He turned to face the woman and looked at her, without really registering her features. A nun. Concerned.

Urquhart forced his lips into a smile. Then he realized he was recovering quickly. A different man’s strange memory of a different life had almost gone.

“It’s all right, thank you, reverend Sister,” he murmured, bowing his head in acknowledgment.

“You’re quite sure?”

“A slight headache, that’s all. The unexpected blessing of your Christian sympathy has worked miracles. I thank you.”

She blushed. “The Lord be with you.”

“And with you, Sister.”

She made the sign of the cross and hurried off. Urquhart watched her go and wondered what had happened. It was a long time since he had had one of these attacks. Why now?

And what was it he had seen?

He no longer knew. The horror had sunk beneath the black waves of oblivion.

Almost automatically his eye went back to capturing the features of the people going about their business, analyzing them, releasing them, going on to the next. Swiftly, precisely, coldly.

DEUS LO VOLT!

It was already getting dark by the time Jacob woke up. He rolled over on the pile of dry twigs that formed his mattress and found himself staring into the yellow gleam of a cat’s eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you going to set me on fire?”

It frequently happened in these tiny wooden houses. Cats would lie on the still-warm ashes in the fireplace and when they were driven off there would still be some glowing embers caught in their fur. Then they ran up to the loft, which was full of kindling, pine shavings, and other combustible material, and in no time at all the house was in flames.

The cat objected to the insinuation. It mewled, turned its backside toward him, and released a substantial jet of urine. Jacob stretched, wondering how long he had slept. After Jaspar had driven him to despair with the story about the archangel, he had crawled up to the loft, collapsed onto a pile of kindling, and fallen asleep on the spot. He must have slept through the whole day.

But he was still alive, that was the important thing.

At the memory of what he had been through during the last twenty-four hours he felt a tremor of fear. But it was bearable, as was the pain in his shoulder. Jacob felt revitalized. He also felt a strong desire to do something. Jaspar would probably be downstairs. He found the trapdoor, ran his fingers through his hair to make himself reasonably presentable, and clambered down the ladder.

In the room a massive, good-natured-looking man was sitting by the fire chewing at a joint of fatty ham. For a moment Jacob felt like running away. But the man didn’t look as if he was in league with murderers and devils. Cautiously Jacob stepped a little closer and nodded.

“And a very good day to you, too,” said the man, his mouth full, so that the words were scarcely comprehensible.

Jacob sat down carefully on the bench and looked him up and down. “I’m called Jacob,” he said.

The man nodded, grunted, and continued to tear at the piece of ham.

“Jacob the Fox. That’s what they call me. Jaspar probably mentioned me?”