by Dave Duncan
Vasco could hardly have missed the difference in my reception. He strolled over to join me. “Friend of the family, are you?”
“Neighbor,” I said, peering at the brushwork with my nose almost on the canvas. “I feed the cat when they’re out of town.”
He said, “Hmm?” and after a moment, “Have you any theories on why your lunatic master is being so diabolically secretive about the name of the murderer?”
“Yes. What’s yours?”
“There are those who mistakenly believe,” he murmured, “that the Council of Ten, while often insanely suspicious of members of the nobility it thinks may be plotting treason with foreigners, is sometimes not as assiduous as it should be in charging the same aristocrats with purely criminal behavior. If your master shared this seditious misapprehesion, then he might think that he could force the Ten’s hand by exposing the culprit in public.”
“That assumes,” I said, “that he intends to accuse a noble. It also assumes that the Ten already know or suspect the culprit and have decided to let him off by accepting the Greek’s suicide as a confession of guilt, and that the chiefs of the Ten do not like this travesty of justice and seized upon my master’s offer as a way of frustrating the will of the majority. You are jumping to a huge heap of conclusions, Vizio.”
“So what’s your theory?”
“That he was telling the truth when he said that an accusation would not convince but a demonstration would.”
“That’s all?”
“No.” I backed away so I could admire the composition from afar. “He’s also a real Pantaloon who loves showing off.”
“He will be walking a very high wire tonight, then.”
Before I could counter that, Pasqual Tirali strolled in, looking frowsty, as if he had been dragged out of bed and had dressed in a hurry. I wondered if he had been partying all night with Violetta and thrust the thought out of my mind. Although this was an unconscionable hour to call on a patrician playboy, he embraced me and acknowledged Vasco’s bow with a gracious nod.
I explained our mission.
He frowned. “You told us yesterday, Alfeo, you had found no evidence that the procurator’s death was due to foul play.”
“I would still say so, but my master disagrees. He insists that he will unmask a murderer this evening.”
Pasqual smiled the irresistible Tirali family smile. “Then we must not miss the excitement. My father is very busy just now, getting ready to take up his new position, but I will tell him. How long will it take?”
“I should hope no more than an hour, Pasqual.”
“And you wish me to bring the same lady who was my companion that evening?” His face showed no sign of mockery or secret knowledge. If he was aware that he shared Violetta with me, then he was a stunningly effective actor.
“If you would be so kind.”
“It will be a pleasure. My mother?”
“No, he asked for only those who were in the viewing room.”
“Knowing my mother, she may not take no for an answer.” Subtly, he began moving us toward the door. “My father was very disappointed when he received your letter this morning, Alfeo.”
I mumbled my apologies.
“I know he sent you a reply leaving the offer open if you ever change your mind.”
That made me feel even more ungrateful, of course.
The inevitable question came as Vasco and I descended the marble staircase. “What offer?”
“The cat. He wanted me to look after it while he’s away in Rome.”
“This is my sty,” I said as we approached the Ca’ Barbolano. “Giorgio will take you on to wherever you want to go. You won’t mind if I do not invite you in? The neighbors would be shocked.”
“I understand entirely,” Vasco countered. “In my job I have to consort with the worst sludge imaginable. We shall meet again this evening, I expect. But hopefully not for the last time.”
I said, “Amen to that. I do so enjoy our little fencing bouts.”
As I emerged from the felze, I caught Giorgio’s eye and signaled Hurry back in Bruno sign language. Giorgio merely nodded, a gesture that means the same to Bruno and me as it does to everyone else in the world except Greeks. With Vasco aboard, the gondola sped off along the canal.
Our arrival had gone largely unnoticed, because the Marciana battalions were all out on the quay, having a screaming match with the workers on the building site opposite. Insults and obscene gestures flew back and forth. I was amused to notice that Corrado and Christoforo were over there, yelling abuse as loudly as anyone at their Marciana friends on this side. I did not bother to inquire the cause of contention. Just because this was Venice, I suspected. I sent Bruno off upstairs and leaned against the door jamb to judge the invective. The Marciana army won by default when the foremen opposite managed to drive everyone back to work.
Giorgio returned in an astonishingly short time, flitting his gondola along the Rio San Remo like a seabird. He pulled in to the quay and I lurched aboard. I would like to say I leaped aboard, but my leg was throbbing again. In fact he caught my wrist just before I fell overboard.
“Where did he go?”
“The Rialto.”
“Fast as you can!” I shouted, flopping down on a thwart. I almost never ask that of Giorgio and he responded with a wild swing of his oar, spinning the gondola on its axis to great shouts of rage from other boats going by, and then shooting it back the way he had come like a musket ball.
I knew exactly why Vasco had gone to the Rialto, but I had very little hope of finding him. The Rialto area is the commercial heart of the whole Republic. It has the only bridge over the Grand Canal, is where the banking is done, where most foreigners lodge, and where the great food markets are-hardly surprising that it is constantly crowded.
Giorgio shot the gondola in between two others in front of the Palazzo dei Dieci Savi and shouted “That way!” I scrambled ashore and hobbled as fast as I could along the Ruga degli Orefici, which was packed with people heading home for their midday meal. The bankers mostly congregate near the church of San Giacomo di Rialto, scribbling in ledgers laid out on tables under the porticos. If Domenico Chiari was about the same age as Vasco and myself, as Vasco had implied, then he would be no more than a clerk, a junior who might be sent off on errands anywhere in the city. So Vasco might have drawn a blank and headed back to the palace to report to Missier Grande.
But he hadn’t. San Giacomo answered my panted prayers, and I caught a glimpse of a red cloak. The vizio was standing by a pillar, having a friendly tete-a-tete with a man of our age, but shorter, pudgy, and bespectacled. The crowds had observed the cloak and left a clear space around them. Even so, the two men were conversing in whispers. Fortunately Vasco had his back to me, so I was able to approach unnoticed and come to a stop right behind his shoulder. I leered like a shark at Domenico so he could not help noticing me-eavesdropping is beneath my dignity and honor unless I can do it unobserved.
He flinched. With his eyeglasses balanced on an almost comically snub nose, he looked very owlish.
Vasco whirled around and bared fangs at me. “What do you want?”
“A chat with the illustrious Domenico.”
“Go away!” the vizio said. “Or I will arrest you as a public nuisance. Dom, never answer any question this character ever asks you. If he pesters you in any way at all, throw him in the canal.”
Chiari smiled nervously. “I don’t think I could do that without help.”
“A lot of help,” I suggested.
“Would four scriveners and two tallymen suffice?”
Oh? A wit!
Vasco was not amused either. “Go away, Zeno.”
I shrugged. “A very few questions, quite harmless. Does he spy for the Council of Ten?”
Chiari, regrettably, failed to turn pale or flinch guiltily. He laughed as if that was the funniest suggestion he had heard in years.
Vasco said, “That is none of your business. I have to p
ut up with you, but I will not allow you to harass my friends. Now go!”
Fun is fun, but if I concealed information just to score points off Vasco, I would be handing him a stick to beat me with in future. Besides he was several points up on the morning.
“Truce?” I said. “Just listen while I ask him a couple of questions. Whether he answers or not, you will be glad you did.”
“No!”
“He’s lying to you. Upon my honor and as I hope for salvation.” I crossed myself.
We have cooperated in the past, Filiberto Vasco and I, although not often. We both hate doing it, he probably more than I, but he knows I play fair. I am not always so sure about him.
He scowled. “Truce then, as San Marco is my witness. Dom, this is sier Alfeo Zeno and you are still not required to answer his questions.”
Chiari peered politely at me over his eyeglasses. “How may I help you, clarissimo?”
“The Miracle of the Holy Cross,” I said. “Painted by Titian. You advised sier Bellamy Feather when he bought it?”
This time his response was more guarded. “I translated for him during the negotiations. I do not pretend to be an art expert.”
“But you are a Venetian? You speak like one. You must have recognized the bridge in the background of that picture.”
“It looked much like the Rialto, but artists-”
“I remember the new Rialto bridge being completed,” I said. “So must you. When did Titian die, lustrissimo?”
“I don’t recall, clarissimo. I am not-”
“1576.”
If I could see the sparkle of sweat on his forehead, Vasco certainly could.
Chiari said, “I think the picture is in the master’s style, painted by one of his pupils, messer.”
“No doubt, but it purports to be signed by him. How much did Feather pay for it?”
“I don’t remember.”
I had no need to ask more questions. He was pale as ashes and Vasco scarlet with fury.
“What are you implying, Zeno?”
“Truce, remember? One or two bad fish in the net I could understand, but the Feathers’ association with your friend turned out to be astonishingly unfortunate for them. The lady showed me six paintings, and only one of them was any good. Your friend must consort with very unscrupulous dealers. Does he spy for the Ten?”
Vasco said, “Yes,” through clenched teeth. Domenico gaped at him in horror.
“So when a rich foreigner and his wife arrived and rented a luxurious-”
“No!” Chiari squeaked. “His bankers in London wrote to Ca’ Pesaro before he even arrived-”
“Immaterial,” I told Vasco. “Ca’ Pesaro reported the London request to the Ten-or the Ten opened their mail, perhaps. Probably both. House Pesaro was told to assign your friend to the Feathers, because very rich foreigners are suspect. He discovered they had more money than knowledge, and no evil intent whatsoever. He proceeded to swindle them blind, feeding them the sort of junk that is painted only to dupe tourists. He may even have embroidered his reports to Circospetto to make the Feathers seem dangerous enough to justify watching. What sort of kickback did the forgers give him, do you suppose? Half? A third? Then either the Bellamys found out what he was doing and threw him out, or the Ten decided that they were harmless and pulled him off the case. I remind you, my dear Filiberto, that while we Venetians are the world’s hardest bargainers, we do always keep our word. Swindling customers is just not in the cards.”
Vasco was snarling. “Have you finished?”
“Certainly. I proved my point, didn’t I?”
“The truce is ended. Get out of here.”
“Do I have to report this thief to the Lion’s Mouth?”
“I will take care of him. Get out!” Vasco repeated furiously.
Domenico Chiari crumpled to the ground in a dead faint, causing heads to turn. Spectators cried out in alarm, with undercurrents of anger against the bullying vizio. I bowed with an ironic flourish and left Vasco to deal with the situation.
About ten points to me.
As I limped back across the campo, I reflected that I should have played my hand a little more subtly. I had not discovered the truth about the Feathers’ visit to Karagounis. They had insisted that the Greek had invited them to the Imer book viewing; he had denied doing so. No doubt Domenico Chiari had arranged that misunderstanding for his own purposes. Well, although Karagounis was beyond questioning, Chiari was not and the Ten’s tormentors would soon strappado the truth out of him.
“You’re looking happy, Alfeo,” Giorgio said, as he rowed us sedately along the Grand Canal.
“It’s been such a wonderful morning! I haven’t had so much fun since I was four years old and pulled wings off flies.”
“Now you pull feathers off the vizio?”
“Darling Filiberto!”
“Be careful of him, Alfeo. He’s a dangerous enemy.”
“He’s a wonderful enemy. He never stops trying.”
“That’s what I mean,” Giorgio said.
It was too early to call on Violetta, so I went upstairs to see if the Maestro had opened and read my letter from Ambassador Tirali.
He had, of course. Then he had used it as a bookmark, so I had to ask him where it was and he had to find it for me. He was still deep in his pursuit of Hermes and Mercury. While reporting on the last couple of hours I tried to bring some order to the incredible clutter he accumulates the moment my back is turned.
He nodded. “Satisfactory. There are some letters to write, and…About tonight…” He fixed me with a scraggy eye. “Wear your sword.”
He knows perfectly well that wearing a sword at night is illegal.
“Certainly, although I wouldn’t be much good with it. My leg still hurts.”
“I mean for appearances. How much would it cost to dress you like a real noble?”
“I am a real noble.” I let my annoyance show. “You really did rummage about in my memories last night, didn’t you?”
He managed to seem surprised. “I asked you only questions relevant to the murder, nothing private. My point is that I can’t shout. I can’t overawe people. I need you to keep control of the meeting tonight. You have to look the part. Clothes talk. How much?”
“You want me to control Missier Grande, his vizio, a great minister, an ambassador, the ambassador’s son, an attorney, and possibly the entire Council of Ten?” I said, awed. “I am humbled by your trust. Perhaps the doge would lend me his corno? To dress me as a noble from scratch would take at least a week, but the Ghetto’s pawnshops are full of good stuff. I could look there and have things altered to fit. Four or five ducats. Ten would be better. Otherwise it will look pretentious and fake.”
He swallowed as if it hurt. “Go and do it. Enter it in the ledger.”
“As what?”
“Maintaining appearances. Hurry before I change my mind.”
23
B runo has his own strange ways of knowing things, and when I returned to the casa with my worthy apparel, he became excited and asked if the Maestro was going to need him later. When I nodded, he ran to get out the carrying chair and strap it on. For the next two hours he wandered about wearing it, a menace to the Barbolano artwork every time he turned around.
But eventually I was ready too. Blue has always been my best color. It sets off my sultry good looks, or something. I had chosen a doublet of peacock blue silk, embroidered in gold, with a wide white ruff collar, puffed sleeves tied at points with silver ribbon and frothy white linen peeking out through the slashes. My buttons were nuggets of amber shaped like pears, and amber strawberries decorated my belt. Below a very low waist I sported matching knee britches and white silk stockings tight and sheer enough to reveal every wrap of the bandage on my calf. My fur-trimmed short cloak of silver brocade hung on my shoulders so as not to conceal my sleeves; my bag-shaped bonnet stood half a yard high. I hoped Violetta would be able to control herself when she clapped eyes on such splendor. Wi
th a last minute adjustment to the hang of my rapier and dagger, I minced out into the salone in my gold-buckled shoes.
Christoforo cried out and dropped to his knees. Corrado and Archangelo came running to see what was wrong and were even more overcome, falling on the floor, writhing and moaning. Then came a torrent of younger brothers and sisters, Mama herself, and Giorgio in his best red and black. Giggling at their clowning brothers, the small fry began bowing and curtseying. The merriment stopped when a steady thumping announced the arrival of the Maestro in his black physician robe-even the twins mind their manners near him, having been warned so often that he might turn them into frogs. Which the rest of us think would be an improvement, mind you.
Bruno rushed over and knelt to offer the chair. I went to assist, moving carefully in case my cloak fell off and shamed me. The Maestro eyed my radiance with intense dislike.
“How much did all that cost?”
“About twenty ducats, I suppose. It isn’t brass and glass, you know.”
He said, “Obscene!” and clambered awkwardly into the chair.
As soon as he was settled, I tapped Bruno’s shoulder to let him know he could now rise, and the three of us followed Giorgio downstairs. It was a fine evening and Carnival revelers were out already, boatloads of them singing along with their gondoliers, even on sleepy Rio San Remo. The Maestro and I made ourselves comfortable in the felze -I having some trouble managing sword and bonnet, I admit. Bruno sat in the bow to block the view as only he could. Giorgio pushed off.
“The twenty ducats, master? I can enter them in the ledger?”
The old miser chuckled. “Enter whatever you spent. But tomorrow you must take the clothes back to the Ghetto and get whatever you can for them. Enter that in the ledger as a credit.”
I can never fool him. We have played out this farce before, when he wants me dressed up, and I always solve the problem the same way. I went across the campo to the Ca’ Trau San Remo, home of my friend Fulgentio, now ducal equerry. As I told you, he and I are the same size, and fortunately he was home. When I explained that I needed to shine before some important people, he at once rang for his valet and told him to dress me. I refused to cooperate until I had made Fulgentio promise to take the clothes back the next day and not try to make them a gift. He agreed unwillingly, grumbling that he rarely got to wear decent things now, having to spend all his days and half his nights disguised as a gargoyle in equerry rags.