The Alchemist's Apprentice aa-1

by Dave Duncan

  The room was very quiet. I expected the inquisitor to comment, but he did not.

  “You served two terms as rector of Verona,” the Maestro said. “And the woman mentioned Verona to Alfeo. You summoned her or she followed you here, to Venice. You knew that your father would choose retsina if it were offered. He walked with a cane, had a crippled hand-easy to describe to someone who had never met him. You killed him without even being in the room! And you knew Alfeo by sight, because you had ordered him out of the house several times rather than pay a trivial debt. When he went to her house and started asking-”

  Orseolo rose to his feet. “Slandering a member of the Collegio is criminal sedition. Marco, you have known me for years. You cannot believe this. Why should I murder my own father?”

  The inquisitor’s face was grim indeed. “The law does not care why, but I expect Doctor Nostradamus can tell us why. We must hear the rest of what he has to say.”

  The Maestro bunched his cheeks in an antiquated pixie smile. “Because his father discovered he was throwing away his political career on a woman. You may be able to find witnesses who have seen him visiting the Ca’ della Naves. A similar thing happened a few years ago, when his father forced him to dismiss a courtesan he was supporting, a woman who goes by the name of Alessa. Granted His Excellency is now a widower, and can reasonably be expected to take a mistress; but that Feather woman is a foreigner and he is a senior minister in the government.”

  Which would make their intrigue treason under Venetian law. Such love is unthinkable, as the quatrain had said. The least penalty Orseolo could hope for would be dismissal from political office and loss of his place in the Golden Book. Exile or the gallows were possible.

  Bianca and Benedetto were on their feet, saying, “Father! Father, you-” but Enrico bellowed for silence.

  “You are a clever devil, Filippo Nostradamus. May you burn in hell for all eternity!” he put his arms around his children. “I am sorry, my darlings. Yes, what he says is true.”

  “Father!”

  “You are admitting the charge?” old Dona demanded, horrified.

  “I admit it. My father was a tyrant, and I have never been able to stand up to him. There was a time when I could make him see reason, but lately he had become close to irrational. Yes, I met Hyacinth in Verona and we fell hopelessly, madly, in love, like adolescents. My term of office there ended and we had to part, but we found we could not live without each other. A few months ago I wrote and urged her to come to Venice. We were happy again, briefly, until my father learned of her and swore he would expose us. He was immune to all argument. The murder was my idea. I talked her into it. Show her mercy if you can.”

  Bianca was weeping, Benedetto ivory-white with shock.

  “Take your sister home, Bene. Look after her. Be a better brother than I have been a father.”

  For fire read passion, the tower destroyed, the man and woman falling.

  Missier Grande opened the door. Enrico Orseolo released his children and walked out. The Lizard could not negotiate a compromise this time, not on a charge of parricide. Quazza followed him out. It is not every day that a great minister needs to be escorted to jail.

  It was over. Brilliant! The Maestro can still amaze me.

  “That concludes my case, Your Excellency,” he said.

  Dona remained slumped in misery. He had expected Hyacinth, but never Enrico. As members of the inner circle of government, the two men must have known each other and worked together for decades. Apart from any personal loss, the scandal of a great minister confessing to the murder of his own distinguished father was going to shake the city harder than the earthquake of 1511.

  I walked along to the inquisitor. After a moment he realized I was standing there and looked up with a scowl.

  “Your Excellency, may the man Pulaki Guarana be released now? He obviously played no part in the murder. From the look of him, he must have told you everything he knows about Karagounis, and he could benefit from medical attention.”

  He shrugged. “We do seem to have concluded the evening’s business.”

  “Not quite, Your Excellency,” said Filiberto Vasco.

  I had not noticed him return. He was smiling. He was smiling at me.

  The inquisitor said, “What?”

  “We have not yet solved the problem of the books.”

  My bowels felt as if I had swallowed an anchor. I had forgotten the jack of swords, but of course no card in the tarot deck would be a better fit for the vizio. Vasco, not Benedetto, was the snare to be avoided. The palace cells might have to admit a fourth new guest tonight.

  Dona frowned. “What books?”

  The vizio bowed. “Your Excellency will recall that at the meeting of the Ten at which I had the honor of reporting on the suicide of Alexius Karagounis, His Serenity inquired what had happened to the books exhibited at this address on the night of the thirteenth. Acting on instructions from Missier Grande, I examined the literary material I had removed from the deceased’s residence. I identified all the antique papers and submitted them for His Serenity’s inspection. He ordered that they be kept in secure storage until the Council of Ten could make determination of their ownership, but he also confirmed that one was missing, a unique copy of a lost work by Euripides. His Serenity described it as ‘priceless’.”

  His Excellency muttered, “Bloody books,” under his breath. “Go on.”

  Vasco continued, smiling at me all the time. “I went upstairs, Your Excellency, to the Leads, where the manservant Guarana was being interrogated. I added the missing book to the list of questions he was required to answer.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Pulaki had crept closer and now fell on his knees, groveling before the inquisitor. “I said everything, Your Excellency, everything I know! You think I would have not told about a stupid book when they were doing such things to me?”

  “What he claimed,” Vasco said happily, “was that the deceased, Alexius Karagounis, was working with that very manuscript at the time I called on him in the company of sier Alfeo Zeno. I recall clearly that there were papers on his desk. When the spy jumped out the window, I ran downstairs with my men. Regrettably, I left Zeno there unsupervised.”

  “I couldn’t run,” I said. “I had a sore leg.”

  Everyone ignored that.

  “When I returned,” Vasco continued, “both Zeno and the papers had gone. I accuse NH Alfeo Zeno of stealing a document that the doge himself describes as priceless.”

  This was obviously my cue to do some fast talking, but I felt as if I were standing on mist. “Oh come, Filiberto, you can’t hang me any higher for priceless than you can for just pricey.”

  “You admit your guilt?”

  “Never! What His Serenity told me was that it was worthless. He cancelled his bid for it.”

  “But you did steal it?”

  “No, I did not.” That was true. I had been bewitched into taking it. Regrettably, that would not be a promising line of defense. “I suggest you dredge the canal for it. The entire window had gone and there was a strong wind blowing. We were up high, remember? Papers were whirling around when I left. Besides, if you torture a man he will say anything he thinks will make you stop. Can you read and write, Pulaki?”

  Wide-eyed the boy said, “No, messer.”

  “But you can identify an antique Greek document lying on a desk, seen casually from across a room, when you are standing behind four other men?”

  “Messer, they were crushing my fingers in the pilliwinks! Bone by bone…”

  “No more questions,” I said. “If they did that to me, I’d confess to burning the Library of Alexandria.”

  Vasco widened his leer by four teeth. “You removed nothing from the desk before leaving the room?”

  “No,” I said. The Jesuits lost a great casuist in me. I had not removed nothing.

  But I was not a good enough liar to deceive the vizio. He had me cornered and knew it. No one would ever
believe I had burned the book. Even the Maestro could not testify on oath that he knew for certain what he had seen me cast into the fire. I had told him it was the Meleager, but I could have been lying. I was doomed and if he tried to support me, he would be doomed too.

  The vizio glanced around. “Where is our host? Lustrissimo, will you please bring a Bible or some holy relic so that sier Alfeo can give us his sacred oath?”

  Even if I perjured my immortal soul, he could still arrest me.

  The Maestro said, “Have you a home to go to tonight, Pulaki?”

  The footman was almost out of his mind with terror. He took a moment to find the speaker and understand the question, but then he shook his head. “I am from Mestre, lustrissimo. I have no money for a gondola.”

  “Your Excellency,” the Maestro said, “this man needs medical attention. Will you release him into my custody for tonight, please? As a personal favor?”

  The old rascal was taking a serious risk by coming to my rescue, which is what he was doing, because Marco Dona was another politician who knew how deals were made. He looked from the Maestro to me and back again. He could guess where the book had gone and he knew who collected books. He also knew that Pulaki was merely a decoy and I was the real favor being requested. If I were put to the question, by morning I could be made to confess to eating the Library of Alexandria and would implicate my master and everyone I knew. I would say anything at all to make the pain stop. If the inquisitor wanted to, he could take this chance to retaliate against the man who had forced him to destroy his friend Enrico Orseolo.

  I’m sure he thought of it, but he didn’t do it. “And then, I suppose you will send the Republic a bill for medical services?”

  The Maestro winced. “No bill, Excellency.”

  Dona nodded, satisfied. Who cared about a moldering old manuscript? This was a way to reward the Maestro for service to the state without cost and without the embarrassment of having to admit what service had been provided. “Take him. Send someone to the palace tomorrow and we will issue a release. Vizio, you cannot accuse sier Alfeo on such flimsy evidence.”

  Filiberto Vasco flushed scarlet and showed us every last one of his teeth. They were nice, strong teeth. I thought he was going to sink them in my throat.

  “We can interrogate him!”

  Dona scowled. “Are you telling me how to do my job, boy?”

  Vasco crumpled. “Of course not, Your Excellency!”

  I was saved. Christoforo and Corrado were standing in the doorway with eyes and ears wide open. They are not as stupid as they often pretend.

  “Tell Bruno it’s time to go home,” I told them. “And warn your father we have an extra passenger.”

  27

  B y the time we reached the Ca’ Barbolano, another winter squall was thrashing the city, hurling rain in faces. Pulaki had succumbed to an ague, a reaction to the end of his ordeal. I had to help him up the stairs. Giorgio and his sons stayed behind to stow the oars and cushions and lamps in the androne. Bruno ran all the way up with the Maestro on his back, and had to wait for me to arrive with the key, because everyone else had gone to bed.

  We took Pulaki into the atelier and put him on the examination couch. I lit lamps while the Maestro dosed him with laudanum and proceeded to unwrap the bandage on his mutilated hand. Two fingers were so horribly crushed and swollen that the only thing to do was apply leeches and wait to see if they could reduce the swelling.

  “Did they do anything else to you?” I asked.

  He mumbled about his back, so I helped him out of his doublet and shirt to uncover a bandage adhering to three circular burns where the torturers had branded him. Only time was going to heal those, but the Maestro did the best he could with ointment and a fresh bandage. Eventually he managed to pick some fragments of bone out of the crushed fingers and splint the entire hand. By that time the laudanum had put Pulaki almost into coma, and I thought I would have to go and waken Bruno to move him. We managed, though, the two of us reeling across the salone like a drunken snake.

  When I had made him as comfortable as he could be in the guest bedroom, I went to check on the Maestro, who was not far off having a reaction himself. It had been a strenuous night for the world’s most sedentary scholar.

  As I was helping him into bed, I said, “A remarkable performance, master.”

  “It went well.”

  “And much as you expected?”

  “Fairly close,” he muttered. “Water, if you please.”

  I fetched a jug of our best mainland water, imported from the Brenta. “Without your clairvoyance I should never have believed that a man like Orseolo, with so much power and wealth, would throw it all away on a cow like that Hyacinth woman.”

  The Maestro yawned heavily. “Foresight helped, but simple logic would lead you to the correct answer.”

  “Yes,” I said, smiling to myself. “It was quite obvious after you pointed it out.” At the door, I added a quiet, “God bless,” but heard no reply. Probably he was already asleep.

  I headed for my own room with a sigh of contentment. I replaced my rapier and dagger atop the wardrobe, and shed all Fulgentio’s finery, folding it with due respect. I was in bed and just about to blow out the lamp when I heard the watergate doorknocker.

  The night was not over yet.

  Barefoot and wrapped in my cloak, I went out to investigate. From the top of the stair, I could see old Luigi’s lantern far below me, and hear him talking through the spyhole. He looked up and saw my light.

  “A lady,” he called. “To see the Maestro.”

  “Anyone with her?”

  “No.”

  I knew who the lady must be. “Let her in and tell her I will come down right away.” I hobbled back inside to find clothes of my own to wear-and my sword, of course. When I left the apartment, I locked the door behind me.

  Veiled and muffled against the storm, the visitor stood beside Luigi, fidgeting nervously with her hands. She reacted with dismay when she saw me coming down alone.

  “I came for Doctor Nostradamus!”

  Reaching ground level, I bowed to her. “I am reluctant to waken the good doctor, madonna. He is very old and tonight was a strain on him. We can talk in the boat.”

  “No, I must see him. It is urgent!”

  “If your concern is a medical matter,” I countered, “then surely you should have sent a gondola to fetch your family doctor?” Thanks to the Maestro’s teaching, I am as competent at first aid as most doctors, but the city health department, the Sanita, does nasty things to laymen who practice medicine. “If it is a matter of mistaken identity, then I can help you as much as he can, and certainly much sooner.”

  “It is extremely urgent!” She wrung her hands.

  “Then let us move quickly.” I glanced in exasperation at blabbermouth Luigi, who was hanging on every word. “I know why you have come, madonna. You wish to tell the Maestro that he pulled the wrong ballot out of the urn this evening.”

  She nodded in shocked silence.

  “That was no error,” I said. “No one was deceived. Did you come here alone?”

  “Just the boatman.”

  “Then we must hurry. Luigi, lock up after us.” I heaved on the bolt. “I can explain exactly what happened.”

  “You are very kind, sier Alfeo.”

  In happier circumstances I would have made some gallant retort. As it was, I just offered my arm and squired her out into a drenching gale that made us stagger even in the loggia. Her gondolier was waiting there and helped us board the tossing boat. The weather was at least as bad as on the night Sciara hauled me off to the Leads, as if the Orseolo affair must end as it had begun.

  I huddled into the felze beside her. Obviously her gondolier would overhear nothing of our conversation in such a wind, but I decided to wait rather than have to repeat it all when we reached the Ca’ Orseolo.

  “You and your brother will have to be very brave,” was all I said. I put an arm around her. She did no
t object. Indeed she cuddled closer, and soon I realized that she was weeping on my shoulder. That was probably the best thing she could do, so I just sat and held her in mournful silence all the rest of the way. The world can be very unkind.

  Ca’ Orseolo was as full of darkness and spooky echoes as Ca’ Barbolano had been, but the night watchman was younger and more impressive than Luigi. He avoided looking straight at me, although he must have been tortured by curiosity. We removed our cloaks; Bianca unveiled. Telling the doorman to stay at his post when he wanted to play link boy to light our way, she took the lantern from him and handed it to me. We went up to the piano nobile together. It was a strange and creepy experience, that silent trek through a great palace with a girl I did not know and had hardly met. She was overloaded with grief and I was half out on my feet with fatigue.

  We reached a door that must be our destination and I opened it into a blaze of candlelight, the mood abruptly changed. Bianca cried out in horror and rushed over to the fireplace. I closed the door hastily and followed, but one glance told me there was not enough blood to worry about. The room was a small salotto, luxurious but cosily intimate, reeking of wine and wood smoke. Benedetto sat on the floor before the fireplace, surrounded by bottles and holding a dagger in his right hand. His left forearm was bare and his wrist had bled enough to ruin the rich silk Turkish rug, but not enough to damage him.

  I caught Bianca’s shoulder and eased her away from him. “Don’t spoil your gown. I’ve seen nosebleeds worse than that. Find me a handkerchief, and I will bandage it for him.”

  I knelt down to peer into Bene’s blurred and reddened eyes. He stared back at me resentfully, not quite unconscious but close to it. I was tempted to offer him a lesson in anatomy-blood vessels run lengthwise and he had cut crosswise, which is the wrong way to do it if you seriously want to rush into the afterlife.