by Dave Duncan
“Lemme ub!” Vasco yelled, who was still pinned under my prisoner. “You crathy thon of a ditch-born…”
I ignored the rest of what he said until I had accepted a dirty coil of cord from the barman and bound Guarini’s wrists. Then I eased back onto my knees and hobbled his ankles for good measure. He was a bullnecked, youngish man with a Borgia beard, taller than me and undoubtedly powerful, and he was starting to demonstrate a very foul mouth.
“Be silent!” I shouted. “Or I will gag you.”
My head still rang from its encounter with the side of the stairwell. I had twisted my ankle, and could count more bruises than there were treads in the stairwell, but Vasco looked worse than I felt. He struggled to his feet, bleeding dramatically.
“Thanks for the help,” I said. “What happened to your face?”
“Hith head hid my noath! An’ he knifed me.” He was clutching his left wrist with his right, so he had no way to deal with his nose, which was pouring blood. I was much more alarmed by the red jets spurting through his fingers.
“Sit down!” I snapped, leaping to my feet. “Bring towels!” I ordered the proprietor. “Run! I take it, Vizio, that citizen Guarini is officially under arrest?”
Vasco’s reply was too lengthy to report verbatim, but the gist was in the affirmative.
“I’d better attend to that gash before you lose too much blood,” I said, realizing that he might bleed to death before my eyes. “Hurry!” I bellowed to the patron, who had rushed off up the stairs, but I couldn’t wait for the towels. I pulled out my dagger and slit Vasco’s sleeve open, all the way to his shoulder, so that I could make a bandage out of it.
Guarini had awakened and was squirming, so I poked him with my toe, not especially gently. “Lie still, dog! If it makes you feel any happier, brother Filiberto, I testify that this scum is the man who killed Danese Dolfin.”
“You know him?” Vasco demanded through his bloody mask.
“I do. And I know someone else who can identify him, too.” It’s amazing what one good, hard crack on the head can do to clear it. I was starting to catch up with the Maestro, who had seen the answer a whole day earlier.
The landlord came hurrying down with some dirty rags, but by then I was using the hilt of Guarini’s knife to tighten the tourniquet. “Is there a barber-surgeon nearby?”
“No, lustrissimo. Not on Sunday.”
“Go and fetch my gondolier. Tell him—”
“I cannot leave my premises.”
“Go!” I roared. “You want Missier Grande’s deputy to bleed to death in your vermin pit? Tell my gondolier that Filiberto is hurt and Alfeo needs help. Move!”
I told Vasco to hold the tourniquet steady while I cut pieces of his shirt to pack his nose. He moaned a little at that, and I assured him that it wasn’t broken, although it was already so swollen that I could not be sure. He looked like the aftermath of the Battle of Lepanto.
“We must get you to the convent,” I said. “The sisters will care for you.”
“No!”
“San Benedetto is very close.”
“No!” Vasco must know he had lost a serious amount of blood, but he insisted that he would return to Ca’ Barbolano with me and my prisoner.
“I missed a good party?” asked a familiar voice, and I turned with relief to Giorgio Angeli.
“It was brief but energetic,” I admitted. “We need to get the vizio to a surgeon.”
“I know the best doctor in Venice,” Giorgio said, helping Vasco stand.
Vasco promptly fainted and Giorgio, who has learned many things from being Nostradamus’s gondolier for so long, expertly hoisted him on his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.
I prodded Guarini again and said, “Up, pig.”
31
Giorgio won gondola races in his youth and that morning he spared no effort to speed us homeward. It was a long journey, though, and twice I released the pressure on Vasco’s wrist to let the gash bleed. I knew that if I did not do that, his hand would die before we reached Ca’ Barbolano. I grew steadily more worried that he might do so himself. By the time we arrived in the Rio San Remo, he was comatose, a study in red and snowy white.
Sunday bells were ringing. It was exactly a week since I had crossed swords with Danese on the Riva del Vin, and one day since I had found his corpse at our door. Now I was bringing his murderer in to face justice, and that felt good. Alongside the two Marciana boats at our watergate floated one bearing the winged-lion insignia of the Republic, so Inquisitor Gritti must be an early riser and I would have no chance to report to the Maestro in private. Nevertheless, I was very happy to see the two government boatmen, who jumped up in alarm when they saw Giorgio’s three blood-soaked passengers.
Guarini had not spoken a word since I tied him up, but he must have known he would have ample opportunity and encouragement to talk in the near future. I poked him ashore at swordpoint, leaving the boatmen to bring Vasco. Giorgio had collapsed in a heap to recover from his exertions.
The front door was locked but not bolted. I let us in and we climbed the stairs. To my great relief, the doors to both the Marciana and Barbolano quarters were closed and we arrived unseen at the Maestro’s apartment. Just inside the salone sat the two fanti who had accompanied Gritti the previous day, Marco Martini and Amedeo Bolognetti. They stared in understandable surprise at me and my prisoner, then rose and followed us into the atelier. The conquering hero had returned.
The Maestro was in the red chair with his back to the windows; Gritti nursed a glass of wine on one of the green chairs across the fireplace from him, and a small fire crackled on the hearth between. It was a touching scene, these two black-robed geriatrics at their ease, except that they held the power of life and death over others, including the power to terminate the lives of men who should long outlive them.
I took the Maestro’s expression of extreme disgust as he surveyed us to imply heart-warming praise. “You’re sure you have the right man, Alfeo?”
“Quite certain, master, although he is an incompetent killer. He tried to cut the vizio’s heart out and succeeded in severing a blood vessel in his wrist, which needs attention. He will be here in a moment.” I looked to Gritti, who was wearing his smiley grandfather mask. His silver locks had been especially polished by a silversmith. “The prisoner can also be charged with deliberately head-butting an officer of the Republic.”
“A serious offense,” the inquisitor said mildly. “Whose blood is that on you, Zeno?”
“Vasco’s.”
The grandfatherly expression hardened as he turned to study the prisoner. “Your name and station?”
“Francesco Guarini, citizen by birth.”
Expectant silence.
“…Your Excellency.”
Gritti nodded. “Take him to the palace, Marco. Put him in the Wells. Come right back.”
Marco and the boatmen removed my prisoner, who went without protest; even the notorious Wells would be little worse than that slum in San Giorgio in Alga, except perhaps at high tide.
I headed over to the medical cupboard as the two boatmen carried in Vasco. He seemed to be aware of what was happening, but not truly conscious. If he died, the Ten would hunt down the witnesses in the magazzen to testify who had killed him, but would the locals lay the blame on Guarini or on me? I brought the Maestro’s bag to the couch, where Vasco was being laid in the same place Danese had occupied the day before.
“Well,” the Maestro said in his cheerful medical voice. “We shall see how Alfeo’s first-aid skills are coming along. Any injuries other than your nose and arm?”
“My pride,” Vasco mumbled. So he was conscious, which was what the Maestro needed to know.
“I can’t treat that,” the Maestro said. “But lots of people get wounded there when they try to keep up with Alfeo.” It was extremely doubtful that his patient had meant it that way. “Alfeo, bring him—”
But I was already there at his elbow with a full glass of wine, raising
Vasco enough to let him drink it. “Water and a bucket, master?” I said. “Honey? More wine?”
“Much more wine. You are learning. Fante, bring the scuttle!” As the startled Amedeo obeyed, the Maestro barked, “Without the logs, you fool!” He wanted it to catch the blood while he restored the flow to Vasco’s hand to see if the color returned, but he is accustomed to having me around, able to interpret incomplete orders correctly.
By that time, I was already going out the door. I ran along the salone to the kitchen, which was a madhouse of confusion, with eight or nine Angelis all shouting at the same time and running in eccentric circles. None of them seemed to notice that I was covered in blood. Even allowing for the love of high drama that Mama has nurtured in all her children, a single breakfast guest should not justify such turmoil, but I was too worried to tarry. I snatched up the things I needed and beat a hasty withdrawal back to the atelier.
I discovered that the Maestro had requisitioned Amedeo Bolognetti to assist him as he began stitching up Vasco’s tendons and blood vessels.
“I don’t need you,” he told me when I delivered the honey and wine and replaced the bloody scuttle with the bucket. “Go and make yourself respectable for company.”
More than happy to obey, I made a brief return visit to the riot in the kitchen for some water and then headed to my own room to clean up. As I stripped off, I realized that I was going to have some wonderfully colored bruises to impress Violetta. By tomorrow I would out-spot a leopard. I was still washing when Inquisitor Gritti walked in without knocking. He closed the door, seeming to ignore me as he strolled over to peer out the window.
“So this is the lover’s leap! One forgets how wonderful is youth.”
“All the more reason to enjoy it…Your Excellency.” I was not in a mood to be courteous if he wasn’t and walking in on a man when he has no clothes on is frowned upon in elevated circles.
He turned to look at me, his ruddy, weathered face expressionless. “Tell me what happened this morning.”
To anyone else, I would have retorted that I must report to my master first, but to try that on a state inquisitor would be ridiculous, so I gave him the story from the time we arrived at the Giudecca, verbatim. Not liking the way he was looking at me, as if assessing me for the torture chamber, I threw down my towel and reached for my shirt, the only silk one I own.
“If you are lying about falling downstairs, you went to considerable lengths to obtain supporting evidence.” He was not smiling, so I didn’t.
I didn’t deign to answer at all. I pulled on my white hose—like the shirt, the only silk ones I own. The Maestro’s idea of an adequate clothing allowance for an apprentice is ludicrous. In a city where anyone who matters goes around in funereal black, young males are expected to preen and strut like peacocks, and that is not easy on a soldo here and a soldo there. I was lacing my hose to my shirt when my tormentor spoke again.
“The vizio confirms that his wounds were caused by Guarini, not you.”
I could not let that one go past without comment. “I am distressed that you would even feel required to ask him, Your Excellency.” I donned my best britches, voluminous scarlet brocade.
“I question everything. The vizio is a very courageous young man.” Gritti stumped across to a chair and sat down.
“That’s interesting.” My best doublet is striped in blue and white, ornamented with acorn-shaped glass buttons, and cost me my entire clothing allowance for a year. I admired it in the mirror as I prepared to fasten my finely starched ruff around my neck.
“He accompanied you and your gondolier across the Canale della Giudecca early on a Sunday morning.”
I turned from peering in my mirror to stare at my tormentor. “That takes courage? Giorgio is a very competent boatman.”
The old scoundrel sneered. “But Angeli is devoted to Doctor Nostradamus and, no doubt, to the invaluable assistant without whom the old man would be virtually helpless. There would be almost no other traffic and you would be far enough from land that no spectator would be able to see what was happening in the gondola.”
This was starting to feel like a nightmare. “What could happen? Are you suggesting that Giorgio and I might have presented a danger to Filiberto Vasco?” Of course he was. Anything one says or does can be distorted into evidence of evil intent.
The old man sighed. “The Grazia girl is young and inclined to hysteria, so the vizio is the key witness to your use of black magic yesterday at Ca’ Sanudo. By silencing him, you could have overthrown the case against you.”
I tucked my hair into my bonnet. “With respect, Your Excellency, I believe that your labors with evil persons have given you a very biased opinion of humanity. Far from attempting to harm Vasco this morning, Giorgio and I did everything in our power to save him. Giorgio is not a young man and I feared he would kill himself, the way he was rowing.”
Gritti smiled, all snowy-bearded grandfather again. “A noble effort! Of course mere brawn is common enough. Brains are much rarer. I watched you in action, sier Alfeo. I admit I was impressed. Definitely it is time your services were placed at La Serenissima’s disposal.”
So that was what yesterday’s excursion had been all about! Nothing appealed to me less than being a spy for the Council of Ten. “I am enormously flattered, Your—”
“December,” Gritti continued as if I had not spoken, “is the earliest we can get you into the Great Council.” He rose and strolled back toward the window. “We shall see you get elected to some minor post with a stipend—the Salt Commission, perhaps. Just enough to explain how you can afford to eat, but the covert remuneration will be substantial and the prospects dazzling.”
“Your Excellency, I am bound to the good doctor. He is too old to train another assistant. While your offer—”
The inquisitor grunted and turned to frown at me. “I suppose we can tolerate him for a year or so. He will have to retire soon, and I could tell you within fifty ducats how much gold he has stashed away in that secret drawer in the couch. Your work for him will give you a good excuse to—”
“Your Excellency, I thank you for—”
“You would, of course,” the inquisitor said coldly, “first have to be cleared of suspicion of witchcraft and attempted murder.”
“Attempted what?”
He smiled, but no child would want a grandfather who smiled like that. “Just this morning you bled Vasco several times, I understand. Barbers and doctors hesitate to bleed patients who have already lost significant amounts of blood, but you, having no medical qualifications at all, felt free to bleed this noble man who had been wounded while attempting to rescue you from an assailant.”
He was goading me, trying to frighten me. He was doing very well.
“I was trying to save his hand. Ask any doctor—”
“You would save his hand at the cost of his life? Of course a hand on its own cannot testify before the tribunal. If you had felt genuine concern for the vizio’s welfare and survival, you would have found someone to treat him in Giudecca.” The inquisitor’s eyes shone with a cold, ophidian gleam.
“I offered to take him to the Convent of San Benedetto, messer. I urged him to go there, but he refused. It was he who insisted on returning to Ca’ Barbolano.”
“You would say that, of course. He cannot recall such a conversation. And yet, alas, he managed to survive your malicious abuse and lives to testify against you! A tough as well as a courageous young man!”
“But inclined to sycophantic prevarication.”
“I have two witnesses to your sorcery yesterday. My colleagues were very distressed to hear of this outrage when I reported to them last night. They were inclined to give some credit to your youth and lay most of the blame on the evil old man who has perverted you. These things would come out at the trial.”
He smiled again. Likely the job offer had come from his two fellow inquisitors. He had delivered it and I had refused it. Now I was fair game.
I had my s
hoes on, I was ready. “But you admit that one witness is a hysterical juvenile. Shall we go and see if Doctor Nostradamus has managed to silence the other one yet?”
32
Out in the salone, I detected mouth-watering odors from the kitchen. Noemi was hovering there anxiously. Noemi is so delicate she could almost hover literally, and I can never meet her eye without smiling.
“Ready?”
She nodded vigorously.
“I shall tell the Maestro,” I said. “It seems our feast is ready, Your Excellency.”
Gritti walked on without comment, ignoring the statuary and paintings. Back at the atelier we found Vasco sitting on a chair—not one of the best—and sipping a glass of wine. Loss of blood always imparts a strong thirst and the redness of wine makes it the best fluid to help the body replace the loss. He was huddled under a blanket, which at least hid his bandaged arm and blood-ruined garments. His pallor was less marked than before, but with a grotesquely swollen nose trailing wisps of packing and two rapidly developing black eyes, he looked as if he had fallen headfirst off a bell tower. I don’t say he had earned all that. I don’t say he hadn’t, either.
Beside him stood Missier Grande, who was a surprise but not much of one, for he would have heard from the fante about his deputy’s injury. The look he gave me conveyed little appreciation of the work I had done to bring the man back alive.
The Maestro was wiping his hands on a damp cloth. He scowled approvingly at me. “If you must waste so much money on clothes, they deserve to be worn in good company. I was just telling Missier Grande that his vizio owes his life to you yet again, Alfeo.”
“Again?” murmured the inquisitor. “You mean again after yesterday?”
“No.” The Maestro’s smirk told me that he had been dragging bait, although Gritti might not realize that. “I was thinking of the time when the gondola overturned and Alfeo had to tow the vizio to shore.”