Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [290]
The mechanics were in a warehouse near the Princenhof, remarkable for its size, the number of people in it, and the sheer volume of imprecations filling the air. The sound of hammering was interspersed with curious noises which turned out to be a group of mermaids, squeezed out from neighbouring premises, who were attempting a chorus.
‘Bloody awful lyrics,’ said Nicholas equably. ‘They’re to sit in the whale. All that is the labours of Hercules. Don’t go near them; they broke their mountain, and they’re all blaming Theseus. That’s the fire-eating dragon, and that’s a man with a spit, toasting the birds that were meant to fly out of the griffon. That’s a copy of the tower of Gorcum, and that’s a goat playing the flute. There is also a consort of wolves, apes and boars. They’re terrible too, but I’m working on them. Now come and see this. Mind the dwarves.’
They passed a unicorn, a singing lion, and a leopard with a daisy in its hand. Gregorio lingered.
‘A marguerite. Her name’s Margaret,’ Nicholas said, ducking. An acrobat hurtled over his head, calling to him in English. Everyone knew Nicholas, and he knew everybody by name. Julius recognised some of the names. Andries. Pieter. Adrien. Joos. They passed some imaginative dispensers of wine, human and bestial. They passed Colard Mansion, up some scaffolding painting a giant, and Hugo vander Goes, on his knees before a row of wet escutcheons. He gave a roar as Nicholas passed, and Nicholas joined him in amiable chorus. ‘Fourteen puking sols a day for all this!’
‘Is that all he gets paid?’ Julius said.
‘I hope so,’ Nicholas said. ‘It’s going to come out of our taxes. You know Canon Scalkin?’
Clearly, Gregorio and Diniz were familiar with the man smiling before them. Long ago, Julius had met the canon of St Peter, maker of miracles. There was one standing in front of him now: a pair of candelabra. Or rather, a pair of towering castles perched upon flowery slopes and backed by seven immense mirrors. Round the slopes spiralled a path, slowly moving, up which rode or walked the effigies of men and women and animals. From each creation extended eight arms ablaze with wax tapers.
The figures moved; a windmill appeared; a dragon leaped, and then vanished. Diniz said, ‘How is it done?’
‘Ask your friend,’ said Canon Scalkin. ‘Without the seigneur vander Poele, all would have been lost. It is done from within, by a man. By, you understand, different men. It is a thankless task. Come and see. Nicholas, open the door.’
Later, it seemed to Julius that Nicholas really did not expect what he saw when, moving round to the back of the object, he gripped a projection and turned it. By then, they were all gathered round him. Nicholas opened the door, and stood back.
Within, naked but for his drawers, was a fair-skinned man of powerful build, his legs and arms still forcing onwards the mechanism, his head purposefully down.
The canon said, ‘Michael? You may halt now.’ The man stopped. The man turned his head. And Julius found he was staring at Michael Crackbene.
The shipmaster of the Fortado was not looking at him, or at Diniz, or Gregorio. It was Nicholas who eventually spoke. ‘You knew I was here?’
‘Of course,’ said Crackbene, and returned him an odd, crooked smile. ‘I thought we might have something to say to one another: you and I, and a young man I happen to know.’
‘Perhaps you would care to come back to my house with me. Canon Jehan,’ Nicholas said, ‘this is an old shipmate of mine. Would it much interfere with your work if I stole him?’
‘Not at all! Not at all!’ said the canon. ‘My dear Nicholas, what we owe you!’
They left, past the spouting archers, the dribbling pelican, the John the Baptist dispensing showers of experimental water. Julius