The Damiano Series Read Online Free Page B

a bit on his staff, allowing any casual observer to believe he was lame.
    â€œNot with that,” spoke the soldier, and Damiano paused again. He could not lie barefacedly and tell the man he needed the stick to walk, but he was also not willing to be parted from it. He squinted nearsightedly at the guard, mustering arguments. But the guard pointed downward. “The general doesn’t want to see your dog.”
    Macchiata’s hackles rose, and she growled in her throat. “It’s all right,” Damiano said softly to her. “You can wait outside for me. And for your sake, do it quietly!” The dog lumbered out the door, watched by the amused guard, and Damiano proceeded into the hall.
    General Pardo was the sort who looked good in black, being hard, neatly built, and of strong color. His height was impossible to judge as he sat slumped in the corner of an ornate bench-pew, his legs propped on a stool beside it. He was dusty, and his face sun-weathered. He regarded Damiano in a manner that was too matter-of-fact to be called arrogant. Damiano bowed from the waist.
    â€œYou are the wizard?” began Pardo. To Damiano’s surprise, the general addressed him in a clear Latin.
    The young man paused. He always corrected people who called him witch, though everyone called him witch. No man had ever before called him a wizard. The word was one Damiano had only read in books. It rang better than witch in the ears, but it also sounded pagan—especially in Latin. It did not seem right to begin his conversation with General Pardo thinking him a pagan, and yet it wasn’t politic to begin matters by correcting the general. “I am Delstrego,” he replied finally, knowing that at least his Latin accent was above reproach.
    â€œNot a wizard?” The question was sharp.
    â€œI am… an alchemist.”
    Pardo’s response was unsettling. His mouth tightened. He turned his head away. It was as though something nauseated him. “Deusi An alchemist,” he muttered in southern-accented Italian. “Just what I need.”
    Damiano leaned against his staff, puzzled. He also dropped into Italian: the Italian of the Alps, heavily flavored with French. “An alchemist seeks only to comprehend matter and spirit, and to raise each to the highest level, using the methods of Hermes Trismegistus »»
    â€œDON’T,” bellowed the general, “TELL ME—” He took a deep breath. A soldier clattered into the room, then seeing it was only the general exploding, he backed out.
    â€œâ€”about Hermes Trismegistus,” finished Pardo. Damiano stood pale and staring, like a man who has broken through ice into cold water.
    â€œWhy?” he asked in a small voice. “Why not Hermes?”
    The general shifted in his seat. A smile spread across his features. “Because, boy, I have heard enough about Hermes Trismegistus and the quest of alchemy to last me three lifetimes. Florence is riddled with fusty old men who claim they can turn lead into gold. Venice is almost as bad.” He turned a gray-eyed hawk glance on Damiano. “Avignon… is beyond help.
    â€œYou are too young and healthy to be an alchemist, Signor Delstrego. Also too clean. Can you turn lead into gold?”
    â€œNot… in any great quantity,” answered Damiano, embarrassed.
    â€œCan you at all?” pursued the general.
    Damiano sighed and fingered his staff. It was his burden that many of the goals of alchemy he found easier to accomplish using the tools of his father rather than those of the sainted Hermes.
    â€œMy methods are not pure”—he temporized—”and the amount of labor involved is…”
    Pardo swung his legs down from the stool and glared at the youth in frustration. “What I want to know, boy, is HAVE YOU POWER?”
    Pardo had an immense voice and was used to commanding large numbers of men on the battlefield. But Damiano was no