by Dave Duncan
I understood the problem already, but decided to spin it out. “Talk back and threaten me,” I shouted in Veneziano so broad that even a Paduan would not have understood. “Slum-dwelling, dung-eating spawn of a canal rat, you insult the madonna?”
His response flaked plaster off the walls. He was either a lot more skilled at invective than I was, or just well worked up already. Fortunately he had his hands full and I had two to wave, which evened the odds a little. I responded and we screamed at each other for a few minutes. Then I turned to the lady.
“Madame,” I explained calmly. “The wretch expects to be paid for delivering the goods, as if one glimpse of your divine beauty should not be sufficient recompense in itself. Permit me to settle the matter.”
I palmed him half a lira, which was five times what he was demanding and ten times what he had expected. “For the lesson in abuse,” I bellowed, waving a fist. “You have the foulest mouth it has ever been my privilege to meet.”
He thrust the package at me and slunk off as if I had whipped him, calling back curses over his shoulder. What he actually said was, “Blessings on you, lustrissimo, and give the foreign mare the ride of her life.”
Hyacinth said, “Oh! What a disagreeable man! That was most kind of you, m’sieur. If you will wait a moment I will find my purse.”
“I should not dream of accepting one soldo, madame. The honor of being of assistance is recompense enough. You are the Contessa Hyacinth of Feather, are you not, the celebrated English beauty I came to meet? Permit me.” I offered another bow. “Alfeo Zeno, assistant to the celebrated Maestro Nostradamus, clairvoyant, physician, astrologer, philosopher, and sage, honored to be at your service, madame.”
Even in distant England, they knew that name. A tiny frown ruffled her eyebrows. “Nostradamus died years ago.”
“Not Michel Nostradamus, but his even greater nephew, Filippo. You met him two nights ago. And he has talked of little else since.”
“He has?” She peered down at me suspiciously.
My hopes of being invited inside were fading. “He was at the book viewing. You spoke with him.”
“Oh, that shriveled little gnome behind the table? I asked him if he was the clerk. He didn’t speak like a Frenchman.”
She was not the first person I had heard say so. Loyalty has always forbidden me to ask. “He is an expert on old manuscripts.”
“You are selling manuscripts? Why didn’t you say so sooner? Come in, monsieur, er…”
“Zeno.”
She let me enter and locked the door, then marched me through to a roomy, but rather cluttered salotto, whose furniture looked as if it had been rented in the Ghetto, although I could make out little by the light of a single oil lamp. She bade me sit and brought me a glass of malmsey with her own soft, white, shovel-sized hands. She strode around like a musketeer and declaimed louder than a sergeant drilling a platoon. Statuesque, she was. She would have been right at home embracing Mars on the giants’ staircase.
“Sir Bellamy went out to call on some dealers, monsieur. We had promised the servants a night off to enjoy Carnival and Sir Bellamy always keeps his word, although without Domenico it is difficult for us to manage by ourselves.”
Her clothes and hair styling were wrong and I could not read her signals. It was unheard of for a lady of the Republic to entertain a man in her husband’s absence and the absence of servants made the unspeakable unthinkable. Romantic near-darkness would normally turn hint into blatant invitation. Perhaps this was normal social behavior in cold, foggy England, or perhaps she was confident she could knock me senseless with a single blow if I tried anything. Who was Domenico? She was still proclaiming.
“That disgusting exhibition the other night was quite typical. If any Englishman spoke to us the way that vulgar Imer man did, Sir Bellamy would have given him a thorough thrashing. And if he didn’t I would. But it is a joy to meet a man who understands French.”
I suspected that many others did but were unwilling to swim against her accent. “Is it that you have traveled widely, madame?”
“Just France and Rome and Savoy and Tuscany. We brought letters of introduction from many respectable people, including several members of the English and French nobility, you understand, but the recipients have not responded warmly.” She pouted. Her lips looked like ripe plums in the dusk.
“You find our city appealing?”
“Most beautiful!” she said. “But the canals do smell and the people are not friendly. Not like Padua or Verona, even. We have not been invited to a single ball or banquet since we arrived.”
“I am sure this is only a language difficulty, madame. Veneziano is not Roman or Tuscan.”
“Absolutely unintelligible! Nothing like proper Latin. But even when we had Domenico, the nobles never invited us into their palaces. It is most unfriendly. And I know that some of them are very pressed for cash just now. A lot of fine art has been coming on the market, and Sir Bellamy represents several important collectors. He is willing to pay in gold if the price is reasonable.”
She paused to draw breath and I whispered, “Domenico?”
“Domenico Chiari. Sir Bellamy hired him to be our guide and interpreter. He ran out on us three days ago. It makes things very difficult.”
Rich foreigners are always suspect. Either Domenico had been spying for the Ten, or he had been taken in for questioning. “Did he take his belongings with him?”
“Well, yes, he did. Why do you ask?” Sudden suspicion pulled rolls of flesh in around her eyes.
“People can meet with accidents and I could have advised you on how to report the matter.”
I could see no way to bring the conversation around to wineglasses and poison. I wondered how I could lure this bell tower of a woman and her so-trusting husband to Ca’ Barbolano so that the Maestro could interrogate them for himself. She was still galloping ahead of me-
“He walked out on us without asking for his pay. It makes our task here almost impossible. Like two nights ago, when we met your master. The book dealer had told us about the sale at Master Imer’s residence. He assured us that it was open to the public, and of course Sir Bellamy was not going to disgorge the sort of money he wanted without seeing how much other people were willing to pay. The host told us to leave and was very rude about it. Sir Bellamy apologized for the misunderstanding-extremely politely for him-and offered to show the color of his money, but then he became even more offensive and ordered us out of the house at once. He asked your master to translate for him. Sir Bellamy was much offended. He is talking seriously of breaking our lease on these premises and leaving the Republic as soon as possible. The weather is appalling. Worse than England. We can make better purchases in Florence.”
“Karagounis himself had invited you to the supper party?”
“Certainly. And there was no mistake, because we still had Domenico with us when we called on him.”
“Lord Bellamy is a collector of books?” That seemed fairly obvious.
“He isn’t Lord Bellamy. Why do you Venetians have this extraordinary custom of making all your nobility equal? The rest of the world has dukes and counts and so on, including England. Here everybody is sier. Sir Bellamy is a baronet, a chevalier.”
“But he does collect books?”
“Books are one of our objectives. We have also been buying pictures and small sculptures. You said your master had manuscripts to offer?”
I had not said that, but I could think offhand of half a dozen items in his collection that he would willingly unload on wealthy foreigners.
“He will be happy to show them if you and the baronet wish to come and inspect them. I could send his gondola-”
“Let me show you the treasures we have collected so far.”
Taking up the lantern, she marched into the bedroom. I followed, wondering giddily if I was supposed to ask how long we had before her husband came home, but no, she took a taper and began lighting more lamps so she could show me paintings. There were six of the
m, all framed but not hung, leaning against the walls.
“I realize the light is not very good,” she boomed. “And they aren’t very much to show for two months’ work, are they? But some real gems! This Tintoretto, for example…”
Maybe school of Tintoretto, I thought. And if the next one was a school of Titian, the old master had been sparing the rod too much. In the end I was quite certain that two were crude fakes and three made me very uneasy. But there was one I honestly admired. It was the smallest, so I could lift it and carry it to where the light was best.
“I still think we paid too much for that one,” Hyacinth declared, bringing another lamp close enough to singe my ear. “It was the first we bought. But Sir Bellamy knows a nobleman who will pay generously for it.”
Even an art lover would. A few feather shafts protruded from the subject’s torso so the Church would accept that he was a martyred San Sebastiano, not just a beautiful young man tied to a tree while wearing only a dishrag. But his musculature was well portrayed and his expression saintly, not agonized or lecherous; also the canvas was unsigned, which was another reason for a cynic like me to think it might be a genuine master. It was old enough for the varnish to have developed craquelure.
I set it back in its place. “A very fine piece, worthy of Giovanni Bellini! But I am no expert in art, madame. My master has shared with me a little of his wisdom on books. When would it suit you and Chevalier Feather to come and view what he has to offer, and perhaps discuss others that he knows of?” I started to move to the door and suddenly she was in front of me.
“First tell me why you really came.” She raised her lamp so she could study my face. “Two nights ago your master, if that is who he is, denied that he sold books, because I asked him. So who are you and what do you want? And don’t try anything with me, boy, or I’ll break every bone in your body.”
The look in her ice-pale eyes was that of a Persian cat that has just caught a juicy mouse. I had misjudged her. She had been testing me. Inside all that beef there was a smarter woman than I had realized.
“I do serve Maestro Nostradamus, madame. It is true that he is not a book dealer as such, but he owns a large collection and I catalogue it for him, so I know he has some duplicates he would part with if the price was right. I have told you no lies, except to praise the pictures a little more than I should.”
“But what are you really after? Were you in league with that ruffian delivery man?”
“No, madame. I never saw him before. I came to ask you which wine you drank at the Imer residence that night.”
“What?” Not surprisingly, she looked surprised.
“At the viewing…One of the guests was taken ill later. My master is a physician and suspects that one of the wine bottles may have been spoiled. You were offered three wines when you arrived, yes?”
“I took the malmsey,” she said. “Both of us did. It’s what we drink at home in England. I don’t care for most of the foreign stuff.”
Where did she think malmsey came from? “If my master is correct, you made a wiser choice than you know. You didn’t happen to notice anyone tampering with the bottles or the glasses, did you?”
“Of course not.” She seemed to grow even bigger. “I was interested in the books and nothing else. Tampering? What business is this of your master’s anyway? Why doesn’t he report his suspicions to the magistrates?”
That was a very good question, for which I had no good answer. “He has his reasons, madame, which I am not permitted to-”
An explosion of consonants from the doorway spun me around. Sir Bellamy had returned. He was older than Hyacinth and surprisingly short for a man married to a woman so large; he wore clothes that looked more Tuscan than local, but he was sporting a ruff the size of a millwheel and an absurd pointed mustache, neither of which even a Florentine would have willingly been buried in. He was pale with rage, which was understandable-and he wore a sword, which was disturbing.
I bowed and for the moment was ignored.
His wife answered him in the same guttural language, which I assumed was English, but she did not seem in the least discomfitted at being caught alone with a young man in the connubial bedchamber. She gestured at the paintings and pulled a face in my direction. I caught the Maestro’s name.
Feather was very loud and very furious. Hyacinth shrugged and continued to answer calmly.
“What is it that you want?” he demanded of me. His accent was not quite as bad as his wife’s.
“Two nights ago, at the residence of citizen Imer, observed you a man in purple robes?”
“And two in red. It was more a coronation than a book sale. Answer me! Why do you come here pestering my wife?” He had his hand on his sword. He was fizzing with rage and he was between me and the doorway. This was no time for finesse.
I waved my hands to show that they were empty and I was unarmed. “To warn you, monseigneur, and your noble wife. The older man, the one with the purple robes and the fancy-” I had to gesture to my shoulder, for my French did not extend to the word for tippet. “Procurator Orseolo. He was poisoned at that meeting. Everyone who was present is suspect. You have heard of the Council of Ten?”
“You work for the government?”
“No, messer.”
Feather drew his sword. “You dare come here and threaten me, you young-” Fortunately, he reverted to English, although the gist was obvious. He came towards me.
I started backing. “I am unarmed, messer. What you are doing is a very serious offense in this city.”
“So is forcing yourself into a lady’s bedroom!”
Her word against mine, although if the judges ever saw the size of the potential victim, they would laugh the case out of court. Meanwhile, the crazy Inglese was out for blood. I backed rapidly to the pictures and grabbed San Sebastiano to be my shield and defender, while sending a quick prayer of apology to the saint.
“Put that down!” Feather screamed. “Drop it!”
“Put up your sword, clarissimo. I wish only to leave in peace. You will not improve the holy man by adding sword wounds to his troubles.” I kept half an eye on the doughty Hyacinth. If she got behind me, she could garotte me with her bare hands.
“Depart!” he bellowed, pointing at the door. For a small man he was both loud and ferocious.
“I will follow you, clarissimo. Madame, if you would be so kind as to go and open the outer door? Then you lead, messer. San Sebastiano and I will follow.”
“Come, Sir Bellamy,” his wife said. “The boy will not turn his back on your sword.” She led the way, moving with majesty.
It took some more calming talk from me before he followed her, reluctantly walking backwards, not taking his eyes off me. I kept my eyes on him as I edged out through the outer door, dropped the saint at the top of the stairs where he would obstruct pursuit, and took off downward like a rat diving into its hole.
9
C arnival revelers were starting to emerge in the alleys and on the canals, the lights had been lit in the corner shrines. Christoforo and Corrado had not drunk themselves stupid and drowned, as I had feared. They were sitting in the bow of the gondola, so obviously pleased with themselves that their father was threatening to send them to confession first thing in the morning.
“I did not give them enough for that,” I said. If I were mistaken, then they would need the Maestro’s professional care very shortly.
“How much did you give them?” he asked narrowly.
“Didn’t they tell you?”
“They said two soldi apiece.”
Blessed Lady help me! I bit the bullet. “Giorgio, I know this isn’t any of my business, but I was their age not so very long ago. My mother was desperately poor, but she let me keep all my earnings as long as I paid for half our groceries. I ate three times what she did, so that was fair, and I learned what honest work was for.” I sighed and said the rest of it: “You are teaching them to tell lies.”
He glowered, but he is a r
easonable man at heart. “You gave them more than four soldi?”
“Just believe I gave them four to pass on to you. Now take us all home, please, before I starve to death.”
I took my seat inside the felze, but when we were underway I beckoned Christoforo to join me-Corrado is more canny.
“How much did you win?”
His face puckered with guilt. “Me? Eight soldi. Corrado got six.”
“And what would you have done if you’d lost it all?”
“We weren’t going to gamble it all.”
“You did very well to stop when you were ahead, but believe me, you will lose it all the next time. Gambling is for fools. Tell your brother I said so.” I knew my advice would drive them to exactly the opposite course, because that was how I had reacted at their age. But now they must have enough money to buy a harlot of the lowest sort, so they would be better off losing it at dice. Sometimes life seems unnecessarily complicated.
Back at Ca’ Barbolano, I found the Maestro gone, but my side of the desk upholstered with pages of scrawl. He works that hard only when he is seriously frustrated by something, and it invariably means twice as much work for me. He had been at the crystal ball again, too, for the velvet lay on the floor and the slate was adorned with drunken snail tracks. I left that problem until later-I tend to be prejudiced against the crystal, because it never shows me anything except my next encounter with Violetta. The Maestro says I will outgrow that. I say I don’t want to.
I began by re-shelving all the books, mostly herbals and ephemerides. The reagents I had bought the previous day I stowed in the appropriate bottles, out of reach of any Angeli toddler who might stray into the atelier. After I had mixed the unguent for madonna Polo, I dusted the entire collection of bottles and shelves to leave no evidence that digitalis had ever been present.
Then I lit the lamp over my desk and inspected the litter. The Maestro insists that everything be kept tidy, but is himself the untidiest of men. He had completed three pages of next year’s almanac and four scribbled horoscopes that were the routine jobs I had expected to do that day until murder intervened. He had even made all the calculations, probably more to keep his own mind occupied than out of consideration for me. A fifth horoscope, identified only as “PM,” was obviously the doge and I did not like the look of his immediate future. If you identified him with the Republic itself, which was legitimate synecdoche, and the Republic as Queen of the Sea with the planet Venus, the current conjunction with Saturn was as ominous as it had been for Orseolo. The Maestro posited that the ascendant Turkish Empire should be equated with the moon in some circumstances, and in that case the aspects were even worse. If he had not yet answered Pietro Moro’s mocking challenge to read the name of the murderer in the stars, at least he had found some evidence regarding the name of the intended victim. As I was tucking all the papers away in my work drawer with a bundle of routine letters, including the papal piles, out fell a letter addressed to me.