Free Damiano's Lute by R. A. MacAvoy Page B

back end. It performed these actions in sequence, first chewing a bite of oats, then swallowing, then heaving up and delivering a massive blow to the oaken panels of the door. Gaspare found he could count to six during each iteration of the cycle.
    The horse was Festilligambe.
    Gaspare leaned negligently against the stones of the stable wall, considering what he saw.
    As a picture, he liked it. Damiano would, no doubt, be quite concerned that the horse would injure himself kicking the door. The owner of the stable might legitimately be concerned as well. Gaspare, however, liked both the animal’s rebelliousness and his realistic attitude. It wasn’t Gaspare’s door, after all. Nor his horse.
    But how had the horse gotten here? Damiano hadn’t a sou to pay for oats. And he wasn’t likely to have sold the brute. Christ, no! The lute player would sooner part with his bollucks. And why did Festilligambe have such a grudge against dry straw and good grain? He was a perverse horse, but not that perverse.
    Gaspare had a strong hunch something was wrong. He leaped lightly to the top of the door, timing his move for the moment the horse took a mouthful from the manger, and then landed lightly on the blond straw on the far side of the box from the gelding.
    â€œHey! Festilligambe. Idiot-face,” hissed the dancer. The startled animal shrieked and spewed oats into the air.
    â€œShut up,” rapped Gaspare, and he pointed in peremptory fashion. “So. You came into a fortune, eh, old friend? Well, one friend’s fortune is another friend’s.” And reaching into the black and bitten wood manger, he filled both his jerkin pockets (which were bigger than such pockets had any right to be) with golden grain. Then he filled his purse.
    With enough oats, one could make frumenty. Or flatbread. But it wasn’t with the clear idea of cookery that Gaspare loaded himself with the grain. It was only that it was there for the taking.
    When sufficiently laden, Gaspare took the gelding’s dangling halter rope and wound it securely around his wrist. Then he led the now-docile horse to the door. “We’re going out now, nag-butt,” he whispered up at the black ear, a foot above his head. “We’re going out to look for old sheep-face Damiano. Can you find Damiano for me, boy?”
    The horse blinked down at him mildly. Gaspare untied the leathern thong that held the door. He was nervous. If the truth be told, Gaspare was afraid of horses. A crack of light appeared as the oak door began to open.
    Festilhgambe hit it, chest on, roaring, and with a display of Barbish speed and temperament, flung himself along the empty street. They were halfway to the next corner before Gaspare’s pitiful scream hit the air.
    His arm was caught in the rope. His feet never hit the ground. There was nothing for the boy to do but grab a handful of mane with his left hand and hang on.
    Except for Delstrego Senior, no man had ever laid punishing hands on Damiano. Or, more accurately, no man had gotten away with it. Damiano was less prepared than most men for the touch of the whip, and the first lick of the tipped cat stiffened him from bucking and thrashing into mute astonishment. The second stroke knocked him to his elbows. On the third he cried out, or tried to.
    With the fourth multifingered assault upon his back, he gathered himself together and fled—fled in a manner he himself did not understand—through the ragged, empty socket in the middle of his mind.
    It was dark here, and green with the background of fir trees. The grass was dotted with crocus and snowdrops, and with gold brushes of flowering mustard. Over the flat meadow wound a stream which expressed neither decision nor ambition, weaving its course as random as a snailtrack.
    Over and through the branchlets of the stream splashed a doe goat, bleating unhappily, tied with a garland of grape hyacinth. It was a brown goat, cow-hocked and