The Alchemist's Code

by Dave Duncan

  Her father smiled ruefully, as if amused by his wife’s equivocation. “She is small and skinny—quite pretty, but her nose is too large for classical beauty. She does have wonderful eyes, I agree, and an endearing smile, but Titian would not have painted her.”

  His wife pouted but did not protest this vapid praise.

  The Maestro sighed. “Thank you. A frank and helpful answer. What fee are you offering?”

  His Excellency’s angular, stony face seemed to petrify even further. “What is your usual charge?”

  “You want me to put a price on your daughter?”

  “A fee to do what?” Sier Zuanbattista’s tone had chilled considerably. “To tell us stories of how she has been spirited away to the Sultan’s harem?”

  “If I produced proof, Your Excellency, even that would be an improvement on your present uncertainty. I expect no payment for my unsupported word.”

  “To help us get her back, safe and unharmed!” madonna Eva said, “a thousand ducats!”

  I swore under my breath. The lady had sensed the Maestro’s reluctance. The old miser would never resist such a bribe. A thousand ducats is a fortune; it is almost fifty times the legal annual wage of a married journeyman laborer.

  In a notable breach of tradition, Sanudo raised both eyebrows. “I think we had better define the terms of this contract very carefully.”

  His wife glared at him. “You think I would grudge it to have my child back? If you will not pay it, messer, I will sell my mother’s jewels.”

  “It is acceptable,” the Maestro said. “I have charged more, but you did well to consult me so promptly.” He had never earned a fraction of that on a missing person case since I had known him. “Returned safe and in good health, one thousand ducats.”

  There was a significant difference in wording there, depending on how one defined “unharmed,” but sier Zuanbattista nodded. “Failing which, for proof of her whereabouts, one hundred.”

  “Very fair. Clarissimo, madonna, the sooner I get started, the sooner I should be able to tell you something.” The Maestro gripped the arm of his chair and I rose to fetch his staff.

  “How soon?” the woman demanded, rising.

  “An hour, maybe two. I will send sier Alfeo with news as soon as I have some.”

  2

  The Maestro’s infirmity excuses him from excessive formalities. Normally I show his visitors out and am tipped a soldo or two for my pains. I rely on those tips. At the end of my seven-year apprenticeship Nostradamus will pay me my accumulated salary of seventeen ducats, but until then he provides only food, shelter, and a minuscule clothing allowance. In this case he had revealed my rank, so I had to behave like a noble, bowing low to Sanudo at the top of the stairs, waiting to exchange bows again when he reached the first landing, then going out on the balcony to bow farewell as they departed in their gondola. And no tip.

  And only one gondolier? Most rich folk employ two boatmen, one fore and one aft. Of course good servants are hard to find and if the Sanudos had only recently opened their home in Venice, they might still be building up their household.

  I went back into the atelier, where Nostradamus had disappeared into his chair again. He was thinking, tugging his beard, but not so lost in thought that he was unaware of my return.

  “How did you happen to know the woman’s name?”

  I explained. He frowned when I mentioned Eva’s brother, Nicolò, the publisher.

  “The girl…You cavort with girls of that age. What do you think?”

  I folded my arms, not presuming to sit unless told to. “Master, I am much too old to interest girls of that age and have been for at least a month, but I’ll bet your thousand ducats to a soldo that she went down that ladder of her own free will and they know it.”

  He scowled, well aware that I was right. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because they waited until noon to come and consult you. Because they did not bring clever brother Giro with them. Because Zuanbattista did not run straightway to the Council of Ten. He doesn’t want the other geriatrics laughing at him, but surely that means that he believes his daughter is in no real physical danger. You noticed he accepted your definition of ‘unharmed’? You are not required to restore her maidenhead by magic.”

  “Do not be salacious!” Filippo Nostradamus is a prude.

  “It’s what he meant, though. They had a splendid marriage in view and Grazia prefers someone half the bridegroom’s age.” That seemed certain as holy writ. “The matter is urgent financially. The rich fiancé will call it off if he learns she has wallowed in another man’s bed.”

  “You spend too much time at the theater watching hackneyed plays.”

  “Hackneyed because they are based on life, and life keeps singing the same old songs.”

  Few masters permit such back talk from their apprentices. Nostradamus enjoys it because it gives him an excuse to snarl and snap at me, although he would never admit that. “And in this romantic drama of yours, whose side is her mother on?”

  What had he seen that I hadn’t? “She wants no scandal, doesn’t she? And her daughter back?”

  “So she says.” He smiled wickedly. “Her own husband must be twice her age, even now, and was three times as old when they were married. Suppose she doesn’t want to see her daughter put through what she was put through? Who did you say was holding the ladder?”

  I humbly admitted I had not seen that possibility. “And she aided her daughter’s escape by talking her husband into coming to you instead of initiating a proper pursuit?”

  That suggestion made him scowl. “Then she may be surprised.”

  “I’ve heard you say that you’ll never take another elopement case.”

  Scowl became snarl. “Nicolò Morosini was a friend of mine.”

  No. Tiny Venice is the greatest book publishing city in Europe, and two men especially made it so—Aldus Manutius and Nicolò Morosini the elder. Both are long dead, but Nicolò’s family maintained his interests and a younger Nicolò had seemed likely to surpass his great-grandfather. On the very first day of my apprenticeship, a man with a nose like the ram on a war galley had come calling on the Maestro to show him some books. Needless to say, I have not forgotten a moment of that day, and I well remember how the two men argued over the value of some manuscripts while I stood in a corner, supposedly grinding rock salt in a mortar, but mostly listening openmouthed as they so casually batted incredible prices at each other over crumbling wads of paper.

  They had behaved far more like rivals than friends, so the Maestro was rearranging his memories to suit his present needs. The thousand ducats must have been irrelevant, because he did not mention it. Instead he said, “What is your logic on the missing Girolamo?”

  “That he is still hunting for the unknown lover. They know who he is and they wasted half the morning trying to find him. I expect Giro is over in Cannaregio watching the gondolas leaving for Mestre. Aunt Fortunata is no doubt pacing the Molo, keeping her beady eye on ferries to Chioggia.”

  The Maestro nodded. “Not bad thinking, Alfeo.” From him that was ardent praise. “Give me an hour. But no more! I know the minute my back is turned you will be plunging into lechery with that harlot of yours.”

  “In a whole hour I should be able to plunge several times,” I said, making him pout at my continuing salacity. What he was really doing was giving me permission and orders to find out what more Violetta knew about the Sanudo family. He would deny that, of course, although he knows that she will never betray my confidence.

  “She’s been away, may not be back yet,” I said wistfully. Sunday’s negotiations at the theater had borne fruit in the form of a new patron, a wealthy commoner named Agostino Buranello, who had whisked her off to Padua on Wednesday so he could flaunt her at a wedding. I had been trying not to think about how she must be suffering.

  Nostradamus rose and hobbled over to the slate-topped table that holds the big globe of rock crystal. I saw him settled on the stool, l
it the lamp, closed the shutters, and left him staring into the crystal. I locked the atelier door behind me. The salone was filled with mouth-watering odors, but a thousand ducats carries a lot of weight. I headed for my room.

  Mama Angeli rolled out of the kitchen to accost me. Mama is too good to be true and works hard to remain so. She is also larger than life, always seeming as if about to give birth to twins or triplets, which she does at frequent intervals, and she is a magnificent cook, a rarity in the Republic. The Maestro tolerates the cost of feeding her enormous family because he thereby retains the services of her husband Giorgio, our gondolier, plus a whole army of odd-jobbers. Six or seven young Angeli were leaking out of the kitchen behind her, curious to know who the fancy guy had been and what their employer was up to this time.

  “You haven’t eaten dinner yet!” she said in tones normally reserved for pronouncing death sentences.

  My stomach responded in the same key. “I know,” I added. “I am fasting for the good of my soul.”

  “You? You could starve to death a hundred times on your sins.”

  “I need to make room for a few more. The matter is urgent, Mama.” I did not move away, because I sensed she had some problem to discuss.

  She pouted. “Vettor was here. He is going to marry that girl!”

  “Giacomina? A wonderful choice! She’s a Virgo, which means purity and service.”

  Mama added more grooves to her pout. “Her dowry is only twenty-seven ducats!”

  “But the children she will give him!”

  That was better, yet Mama’s eyes still gleamed suspiciously. “Children?”

  “Many, many children. But he must marry her soon, while Venus is in the house of Leo. I’ll work out the best possible day for the wedding so she will bear sons. If they wait until the moon reaches conjunction with the Pleiades, then it will be daughter, daughter, daughter…”

  “You swear this?”

  “The stars never lie. Now, please, I must go. See the master is not disturbed.” I made my escape, knowing from Mama’s rapturous smile that the news of many future grandsons would be down at the wellhead in the campo in no time and all over the parish by evening—all over Venice, very likely, for the Angeli clan forms a substantial part of the population.

  The reason the Maestro had not ordered me to try the crystal with him is that it never shows me anything other than my next encounter with Violetta. This is a problem of youth, he says, but youth has its compensations. Furthermore, tarot works well for me, although it lacks the detail of clairvoyance. My deck’s great age makes it extremely sensitive. The cards are shabby and dog-eared, the inks of the drawings almost rubbed away in places. I retrieved it from under my pillow and laid the spread out on my dressing table, a quick five-card cross.

  The face-up card in the center defines the subject or question, and this time it amply confirmed my suspicions, for it showed Love, number VI of the major arcana, a couple holding hands with Eros aiming his arrows. I dealt the other four facedown and turned them over in sequence. The one below, representing the problem, was the king of coins. On my left, which is the subject’s right, the helper or path was the Pope, Trump V. The objective or solution, at the top, was another trump, the World, number XXI. And, finally, the danger to be avoided was the knave of swords. With the possible and worrisome exception of that one, the reading was as straightforward as any I had ever seen. The presence of three of the major arcana made it powerful, but it could not tell me where Grazia Sanudo was at the moment.

  Having tucked my deck away, I went to peek out at Number 96, the smaller house next-door. The leaded panes of my windows bear colored or prismatic glass so no one can see in, but I can peer out through a few clear gaps, and much pleasure I have of them. Number 96 is a bawdy house and on sunny afternoons the inhabitants gather on the rooftop deck, the altana, to bleach their hair. They are fully dressed, you understand, even to hats with no crowns, only wide brims to shade their faces and spread out their hair. The view is admirable all the same, and that day there were fifteen shapely nymphs gathered there. To my joy, fourteen of them were outshone by the radiant beauty of Violetta.

  The calle dividing the buildings is very narrow, so my preferred way of visiting her is to remove a couple of loose window bars, squeeze through, and just jump. That saves me having to walk down forty-eight steps and back up sixteen to her apartment. I haven’t died yet, although a couple of times the results have been in doubt for a freezing fraction of a second. I would not try it before witnesses.

  I opened the casement. “Damsels!” I cried. “I am available to the highest bidder.”

  Were I to record their replies, the Vatican would add this book to the Index Librorum Prohibitorum.

  “Your ribaldry fails to conceal your lust for my incredible virility,” I said. “Just ask Violetta!”

  “We did,” they replied in chorus, as if they had been rehearsing.

  Abandoning the unequal struggle, I quit the field and went down the conventional way to the watergate, where a lighter was tied up, either half-loaded or half-unloaded, but deserted during the midday break by all save a youthful Marciana watch-boy. There is no pedestrian fondamenta flanking the Via San Remo on our side, only a narrow ledge, along which an agile young man can work his way crabwise as far as the watersteps at the end of the calle. Another ledge beyond that took me to the watergate of 96, where I was admitted by Milana, Violetta’s maid. Milana is tiny and has a twisted back, but she is ever cheerful and devoted to her mistress.

  “My, you must have moved fast,” I told her.

  “The thought of seeing you inspired me, messer. Hurry, she is waiting for you.”

  That remark inspired me, so I took the sixteen treads at a run. Violetta Vitale is the most esteemed courtesan of Venice, and men squander fortunes for a single night with her. Her apartment is opulent, the bedroom most of all. With a silken bed standing on gold columns, walls adorned with splendid art and crystal mirrors, it would not disgrace a king’s palace and she has entertained royalty there. Violetta works by night and I by day, but when she is at home we often manage to meet around noon. Sometimes we just talk. Not often, I admit, and that day she rushed to greet me barefoot, with her hair still flowing loose. She had discarded the high-necked sleeved robe she wears to keep sunlight from darkening her creamy skin, and her silken undergarments hid no secrets. She eclipsed even the three naked goddesses looking down at us from Titian’s magnificent Judgment of Paris.

  “I came on a business matter,” I protested. “I cannot stay.”

  “It has been three days! I am insanely desperate for you, Alfeo Zeno, and if you do not feel the same about me, then you have some explaining to do.”

  She was right, of course, and actions speak louder than words. Our embrace was fervent, almost frenzied, and no one can arouse a man faster than Violetta when she is in her Helen of Troy mode. By the time her chemise slid down to join my cap and doublet on the floor, I was ready to sweep her up and carry her to the bed. Then she pulled back to stare at me.

  Gazing into furious green eyes, I realized with dismay that now I was holding Medea, who is dangerous, capable of anything. I tried to pull her close again and she resisted.

  “Business? Three days without me and you come here for business?”

  “I was teasing!” I protested. “Joking.”

  “Joking? Teasing? I will teach you to tease.” Hands clawed at my face.

  In my reflex move to avoid damage, I released her. She ran nimbly to the door. I followed without trying to make myself respectable, because the only other person around would be Milana, who must have seen many men wearing much less than I was.

  Violetta’s dining room is small and intimate, of course, sized for two, and there she was already seated at the tiny table, pouring wine. Two steaming dishes of ravioli awaited us, so obviously she had set this up with Milana, who is a good cook, although not in Mama Angeli’s class. Yielding to the inevitable, I finished removing my shirt to hel
p even the odds and sat down beside her.

  Medea was amused by my pretense of calm, knowing perfectly well how ignited I was. She picked up a savory morsel and leaned even closer to put it to my mouth. I accepted it, licked her fingertips, and reciprocated. Most wealthy Venetians have taken to eating with silver forks instead of fingers, a procedure that greatly amuses foreign visitors. Not my courtesan. She can make anything, even feeding, into foreplay.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes. The ravioli was excellent. But when Violetta offered wine and I refused, she realized that I was serious. I was thinking of the knave of swords, of course, when I could think of anything other than those incredible breasts so close. Fencing and drinking do not mix.

  “What sort of business?”

  “Zuanbattista Sanudo.”

  Try saying that with your mouth full of shrimp ravioli.

  Violetta popped another treat in my mouth. “Easy. The Sanudos are one of the oldest noble clans, claiming descent from doges of the ninth century. Zuanbattista has served on all the big councils—the Collegio, the Senate, the Forty, the Ten. Fought at Lepanto. Now he’s had three years as ambassador to Constantinople and before that he led a special mission to Paris, triumph upon triumph. He’s in the innermost of the inner circles. His first wife was a Marcello and his second a Morosini, meaning he married into two of the biggest families in Venice. He did well financially out of the second marriage, I believe. She was the sister—”

  “Madonna Eva?”

  “Correct. She or Zuanbattista inherited the publishing business. Likely they’re planning to marry their daughter into another of the big clans.”

  “So he’s a possible future doge, then?”

  “When he’s old enough. Even now, with his diplomatic record and strong connections in the Great Council, he’s almost a shoo-in to be elected a procurator of San Marco as soon as there’s a vacancy.” She fed me again.

  “Rich enough?” I mumbled.