Tears of the Salamander Read Free

first-year seniors a turn so that when their time came to sing for the ears of His Eminence they would not be afraid. So Alfredo robed himself and settled into a corner of the vestry and bowed his head over his clasped hands in the attitude of prayer. He didn’t understand about real praying. It was just words, the same words repeated and repeated until they were emptied of meaning. What he was really doing was allowing the fire of the bakehouse that still surged and swirled through his mind to turn itself gradually into the music that he was going to sing. He was more than happy. There were no words for it. Only the blessed souls in the presence of the Almighty could know and feel anything like what Alfredo knew and felt.
    He heard a noise from the body of the cathedral. Not many people came to weekday evensong, often no morethan a few old crones, but this was actual bustle, hurrying feet. A door must have been thrown open, because now there were sounds from outside, yells, clamor. More. Worse. The noises in themselves had nothing to do with Alfredo, with the fire and the music inside him. But these things too had changed. The music was gone. And the fire…
    There was madness now in the fire, the wildness of wild beasts, the fury of a howling storm. He couldn’t hold it. It would burst out of him, burn, kill…
    He leapt to his feet. Several of his friends were just coming in through the vestry door, teasing each other—in whispers because the choirmaster was close behind them. Alfredo charged through, dodged the choirmaster’s grab for him, ignored his bellow to stop, wheeled out into the chancel aisle, raced down through the screen and into the already darkening nave. Somebody had opened the great west doors, and through their arch he could see the orange glow of the blaze, the nearer roofs black against it, and above it the swirling tower of smoke, almost as black against the distant reds and golds and oranges of sunset.
    He stood for a moment, panting, staring, then gathered up the skirts of his robes and pelted on down the twisting route along which he had so often trotted, singing. Long before he reached it, forcing his way through the gathering crowds, he already knew what he was going to find. His home, his ovens, were the roaring heart of that furnace.

    They didn’t punish him for missing evensong. He wouldn’t have cared if they had—in fact he would barelyhave noticed. But the choirmaster, though strict, was a kindly man, and the boy’s whole family had perished in the blaze. Besides, he had plans now for Alfredo.
    “This is a terrible thing that has happened to you, my son,” he said. “I truly grieve for you, as do all your friends here. You have no other relatives?”
    “Only my uncle, Father. I don’t know where he lives. He came to my christening, but I don’t remember, of course. That’s the only time I’ve seen him.”
    The choirmaster nodded. It didn’t sound as if this uncaring relative would be much of a problem. Very likely he would be glad to have the boy taken off his hands.
    “You need not sing if you do not feel up to it.”
    “Oh, sir, please,” said Alfredo, weeping. “I
must
sing. It’s the only thing left.”
    “That’s a good boy,” said the choirmaster, remembering minor turbulences in his own life during which he had taken refuge in music, and believing he understood something of what Alfredo felt. “Soon you shall sing a solo for His Eminence.”
    Next day an official from the City Watch came to talk to Alfredo. He did not, of course, explain that there was no doubt that the fire had started in the bakehouse, and that if it could be shown to be the baker’s fault, then neighbors who had lost their houses as the flames spread would be able to claim against his estate, but if not the city would be liable for some kind of compensation.
    Reluctant even to think about the fire, let alone talk about it, Alfredo admitted that he had been home that evening, had prepared