The Alchemist's Pursuit

by Dave Duncan

  I was ordered to report, so I did.

  When I had finished, Alessa was visibly tense.

  “Madonna?” the Maestro inquired waspishly. “Did you know any of these wretched women?”

  Alessa’s plump fingers kept playing with her pearls. “All of them slightly, none of them well.”

  “All about your own age?”

  “One must never ask a woman her age, Doctor, especially a courtesan.” Even she could not smile at her joke.

  “You have nothing more to say?”

  “No, Doctor.” She shook her head vigorously. “Except the obvious one, that this is a very horrible affair.”

  Nostradamus bristled. “Paraphrasis!”

  “What?”

  “Double-talk! I invited you to dine, madonna, because I knew from donna Vitale that the murdered woman Lucia da Bergamo had retired from her profession. Information from a man I questioned this morning suggested that Caterina Lotto may have had some undetermined interaction with a prominent patrician politician eight years ago, and I knew that she was living in San Samuele, an area favored by second- or even third-class prostitutes. In other words, I had reason to believe that two of the three victims that we know about were of roughly your generation. I ask you again, madonna, have you ever met, or heard of, a man known as Honeycat?”

  Stony-faced, Alessa shook her head.

  “Can you think of any man—a wealthy man, clearly—who patronized courtesans about eight years ago, who might have decided to start murdering them off? Or any reason why he should?”

  Again she shook her head. Violetta caught my eye, hinting that Alessa was lying.

  “If you know Honeycat, you are in very grave danger,” the Maestro said.

  Alessa rose, towering and statuesque on platform soles. “I thank you for the splendid meal, Doctor. If you would be so kind as to ask your boatman . . .”

  I went and fetched Giorgio to take her home to the house next door. I steadied her arm as we descended the stairs.

  “Is it normal for clients to hide their identity behind nicknames?” I asked.

  “Clients?” Alessa shot me an amused glance. “Johns, you mean. Johns will try almost anything, Alfeo my dear, and can always find prostitutes willing to cooperate. Courtesans are different. Wealthy Venetian men provide little education for their daughters and keep their wives housebound—some don’t get out more than two or three times a year. They have no friends, no recreations. Then the men wonder why their womenfolk are so dull! They patronize courtesans at least as much for entertainment as for sex, probably more. They pay enormous sums for the best of us, and wealth gives us power. We are not hungry or desperate. To answer your question, yes, I have had patrons who wished to remain anonymous. I almost always knew who they were before they asked, and if I didn’t I made it my business to find out.”

  “But no Honeycat?”

  “No Honeycat. Hercules, Don Juan, Squirrel, Jupiter, but no Honeycat.”

  We had reached the watergate, and I held her hand as she embarked in the gondola.

  “Be careful, Alessa,” I said.

  I ran back up the forty-eight steps, but found Violetta and the Maestro where I had left them.

  “Did you believe her?” he demanded.

  “No,” I said. “She knows. She may be too frightened to tell us.”

  “Leave her to me,” Violetta said. “Meanwhile, the Maestro and I think we should see what we can discover about Ruosa da Corone. I have a friend in San Girolamo who’ll know where she lives. Lived, I mean.”

  I looked for permission to the Maestro, who nodded disagreeably. “It’s all a waste of time. Go if you must, but the Ten will have your Honeycat safely locked up somewhere by now.”

  I was inclined to agree, but I would not pass up the excuse to go adventuring with my lady. It seemed that the Maestro was not going to rise from his dining room chair until I had removed Violetta, so I did that. Smirking like an adolescent, I offered my arm and escorted her to the stairs.

  “My master makes me work so hard!”

  She was in a serious mood. “I don’t see why you have to do all this asking of questions. The sbirri can do that. Why can’t he just peer into his crystal ball?”

  “Looking for what? He needs something to hunt for.” I did not mention that the Maestro might have to try foreseeing the next victim, but even for that he would still need some sort of a pattern to start from. “You didn’t know Ruosa?”

  “Only slightly—we met at parties sometimes. She wrote some quite bearable poetry and was a wonderful dancer; in her middle twenties, I’d think.”

  That meant she had been in her prime as a sex toy when Giovanni Gradenigo had met Caterina Lotto about eight years ago. Venice is unusually tolerant in such matters, but a political career can still be destroyed by a scandal if it is scandalous enough. Three women, all real people, all cruelly destroyed. What baffled me was the motive. Not a sexual crime, so far as I could see. Not robbery. One murder might be explicable, but three in as many weeks suggested a campaign—for what reason?

  San Girolamo parish is in the north of the city, in Cannaregio, and Violetta’s friend, Franceschina, was yet another courtesan beauty, probably even younger and very nearly as divine. She had a magnificent home, two female servants, and had just finished what would be her first meal of the day. Indeed, she was not even properly dressed yet, just swathed in a misty silk robe that caused me to start running a high fever. She greeted Violetta with chirrups of joy and an embrace that would have been worth a hundred ducats to any man on the Rialto. She smiled politely at me, assuming I was the “doorman” protector, which was what I was beginning to feel like.

  “You sit there, love,” Violetta said, waving me to the most distant chair in the room. “You don’t happen to have a blindfold handy, do you, darling?”

  Franceschina tinkled laughter. “No but his eyeballs are going to explode any minute, and then it won’t matter. He’s very cute. Wherever did you find him, dear? Would you trade him for my current gorilla?”

  One of the maids brought in glasses of sickly sweet wine. The women settled together on a silken divan, holding hands and smiling at each other so skillfully that I couldn’t tell if they were bosom friends or mortal foes. I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of them to adore. More of Medea showed in Violetta’s eyes every time she glanced in my direction, but I was entranced. I had never seen two such beauties together before, and the way Franceschina’s robe had slid apart to expose her leg was a once-in-a-lifetime experience—not to mention the glow of nipples through silk. Fascinating! She portrayed a silly, brainless child very well and I could put up with a lot of giggles in a good cause, but if she were as shallow as she was pretending, Violetta would never have described her as a friend.

  Violetta’s explanation of why we had come was very terse, as if she were anxious to finish our business and leave. Even Franceschina could not maintain her bubbly twittering when talking about strangulation, so she switched to high drama. Three murders were terrible, unthinkable, nightmares from the pits of Hades. She was shrill, yet she made me want to sweep her into my arms and comfort her. It was a masterly performance and reminded me that I had never watched Violetta display her skills professionally, because I am her recreation. Franceschina was either just reacting to a man in her house from habit or stoking my fires to annoy Violetta; or both. It was so well done that I didn’t care why it was being done. I was getting a free demonstration of a hundred-ducat performance.

  With many asides, endearments, and irrelevancies, she said that Ruosa da Corone had done very well for herself—she had retired from the trade, having acquired a husband, one of the rich and important Valier clan. “Of course it was only a church marriage, not a legal one, because his name would be struck from the Golden Book if he officially married a courtesan, and I expect the brothers agreed ages ago which one of them will produce the legal heirs. That’s how it’s usually done, but it was a true love match, and at least her children
. . . her son, I mean, will be citizen class. Valier set her up in the most gorgeous apartment, with two servants and a very generous allowance and a room in the same building for her mother! So generous! And now this! So tragic!”

  “But how did it happen?”

  “Well nobody knows, darling! It was exactly a week ago, the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin. She sent the boy off with his nurse and the maid so that he could watch the parade, you know?”

  Of course we knew, and I as a boy watched the great processions of Venice innumerable times. There are ten of them a year, and the one she referred to parades every February 2 from San Marco’s to San Maria Formosa—which is not very far—to commemorate the valor of the men of that parish back in 943, when they rescued a company of brides kidnapped by a band of pirates. I don’t go so often now, but I had watched that particular parade last week to see if I could cheer loud enough to catch Fulgentio’s eye as he went by and make him blush. It is one of the full-blown “triumph” parades, and very grand, beginning with eight standard bearers, then six buglers blowing silver trumpets, fifty minor officials in ceremonial robes, then the city band and drummers in red, stunningly loud in the narrow streets. Right on their heels come the equerries in gowns of black velvet (Fulgentio looked very sweet), then some priests, more officials and secretaries in crimson velvet, the chancellors including the grand chancellor, who ranks second to the doge, and the doge himself in the ermine that only he may wear, followed by his umbrella holder, the papal legate, ambassadors, the ducal counselors, the procurators of San Marco, the three chiefs of the Quarantia, the three chiefs of the Council of Ten, the two censors, the Senate in their red robes, and I have left out some of the minor participants.

  When the doge arrives at San Maria Formosa, he is presented with two hats and two flagons of malmsey wine.

  The parade is a wonderful excuse for a woman to send off her child and servants so she can be alone to receive a lover.

  Just in case we were stupid, Franceschina added, “Valier’s on the mainland on business and she’d probably felt lonely. When the maid came back, there she was, dead!”

  “Had she received any messages that day?”

  Franceschina’s eyes grew even larger. “But yes, she had! However did you guess that, darling? No one knows what it said, except maybe the . . .” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “. . . Ten, you know?”

  Rumor, which she happily passed on, said that there had been no signs of robbery or sexual violence. “But the boy’s with his grandmother. Why don’t you go and see her, dear? She’ll be able to tell you much more.”

  Violetta tossed back her wine and said that in that case she must rush because she had to be home before sunset.

  “The music salon at Ca’ Grimini?” Franceschina chirped. “Will you be there, too? Oh, I am so looking forward to hearing that Milanese castrato, Whatsisname! They say he’s an angel, absolutely divine!”

  “I’ve heard him,” Violetta said. “He sounds like a canary with severe constipation.”

  The weather was changing, just to remind us that it was still February, there were few people in sight, and Giorgio had taken shelter from the wind in a nearby loggia. He hastened to meet us.

  “Another call to make,” I said. “Close enough to walk to. We’ll be as quick as we can.”

  Violetta and I paraded along the fondamenta to the calle Batello, down that about three houses, into a wide arched doorway—where stood Filiberto Vasco, the vizio, with his feet planted, his arms crossed, and a big smirk on his face.

  “Go away, Alfeo,” he said. “There’s a good boy. No admittance.”

  As deputy to Missier Grande, the chief of police, Vasco would never post himself as a sentry on a chilly February corner. He thinks he is much too grand for that. He must have known that we were coming and had braved a few minutes’ exposure just for the satisfaction of yanking my leash personally. He and I have been keeping score for several years, ever since a rich uncle bought him a job for which he is hopelessly inadequate and far too young. He loves to frighten people by flaunting his red cloak and silver belt badge, and his greatest ambition is to see me hanged between the columns on the Piazzetta.

  Violetta and I had halted, of course.

  “Says who?” I demanded, just to remind him that his authority came from much higher levels. His even larger smirk told me at once what was coming.

  “Why, the Council of Ten, of course. Are you going to cause me trouble, Alfeo?”

  “Why should I? You’ve never caused me any.”

  Violetta gave my arm a warning squeeze.

  “I was instructed to tell you, boy, that you are to stop meddling in things that do not concern you. And that goes for that mountebank, Nostradamus, also. Tell him so. Now go away. And behave yourself, or it will go hard with you.”

  Since he and I attended the same fencing class, I knew I was a better fencer than he was. I admit I felt a momentary temptation to prove it with my rapier, right then and there, which would have been a wonderful treat, but one leading to a quick appointment with the headsman’s ax. I regretfully decided to behave myself.

  “What things, specifically, sbirro?”

  His smile was intended to show that my insults were childish and he would settle them later. “Don’t pretend to be stupider than you really are, Alfeo.”

  “Oh, you mean the Ludovici robbery?” I asked, in the hope that he might mention some cases I hadn’t heard about yet.

  “I mean any criminal matter at all. The magistrates enforce the law, not you. Go. I shan’t warn you again.”

  There was nothing more to say. No one can argue with the Ten. They never answer questions, never explain, and there is no appeal from their decisions. I turned and walked away with Violetta and all the dignity I could muster, trying not to trip over the tail between my legs. Vasco stalked along behind us to see us off, whistling a cheerful tune.

  Giorgio emerged from his shelter, noticing my fury but keeping his face diplomatically inscrutable. It wasn’t until he’d rowed us well out of the vizio’s hearing that he spoke.

  “Where to?”

  “Home!” I said. “We have been forbidden to meddle.”

  “Does that mean they’ve caught the devil?”

  I always warn him when whatever I’m up to may be dangerous, so he knew who we were after.

  “No.” I glanced at Violetta and she nodded agreement. “It means they’re protecting him.”

  9

  After dropping off Violetta at the watergate of Number 96, I found the Maestro in his favorite chair, comparing two manuscript copies of a work by al-Kindi, the ninth-century philosopher who may be better known to you as Abu Yusuf Ya’qub ibn Is-haq ibn as-Sabbah ibn ’omran ibn Ismail al-Kindi. This was a bad sign, because it probably meant that he had been taking his mind off his sore hips and the Strangler both.

  I reported.

  “Can’t fight the Ten,” he growled. He detests arbitrary authority. It often provokes him into mulish defiance, which would be grievous folly in this case.

  “And since Matteo must have told the sbirri about Honeycat,” I said angrily, “and the Ten has records on everyone going back three hundred years, they must know who he is by now. He’s a noble and they’re protecting him!”

  Nostradamus shrugged his narrow black-clad shoulders. “That depends how many people knew him by that name, but you are likely right. What matter if the Ten have forbidden us to investigate these murders? The state investigates crime, certainly, but it is every citizen’s duty to prevent one. The Ten cannot object if we seek to prevent a murder that hasn’t happened yet.” He sighed. “Pass me my canes.”

  “If you are serious about preventing a murder,” I said, “you could summon a much more effective assistant than me.”

  He scowled. “Not yet. Later, if we must.”

  That made sense, because the second law of demonology warns that a demon will always try to cheat, betray, and deceive, no matter how securely it is bo
und according to the first law. Prevention of a murder would be an altruistic purpose and therefore permitted by the third law, but summoning can never be truly safe.

  “What do I do next, then?” I demanded. I was as restless as a bluebottle. Catching a killer is serious work at any time, but catching one who is going to kill is much more stressful.

  “Nothing. Now it is my turn.”

  Massively relieved that he was going to bring his powers to bear on the problem, I gave the Maestro his canes and helped him rise. He crept across to the slate-topped table where he keeps the big crystal ball. I removed the red velvet cover, lit a candle, put chalk where he could reach it, and went to close the shutters on the blustery twilight outside. On the way back I grabbed a sheet of paper and a crayon from the desk.

  “Anything else, master?”

  “Yes. Go and feed. If I find anything you may be in for some strenuous activity this evening.”

  Of course the Strangler might not be planning anything at all. He might have done all the killing he wanted, or still be tracking his next victim, or be languishing in the palace cells. Or not. I found that the Maestro’s warning had left me with surprisingly little appetite and a strong desire for company—going one-on-one against a murderer always makes me feel lonely. One possibility was Vettor Angeli, Giorgio’s eldest, who lives elsewhere and is a gondolier in his own right. Vettor’s a good lad with a cudgel or fists, but to take him out against a vicious three-time murderer would not be fair. More appealing was the thought of Fulgentio. A ducal equerry from a wealthy family does have some status—not enough to deter the Ten from taking action against him, because nobody has that security, not even the doge himself—but enough to make them prefer not to. He had been on his way to the palace that morning, so he ought to have finished his watch now and be home or on his way there.

  I scribbled a note to him, telling him to bring the foils and masks over, and his sword as well, just in case. That would be enough to fetch him. Having sealed the note with a scrap of wax I keep in my bedroom, I sent it off to Ca’ Trau in the hot and grubby hand of thirteen-year-old Archangelo Angeli, much to his delight and the vexation of the twins, who would undoubtedly lie in wait to mug him for his reward when he returned. Only then did I stalk into the kitchen to see what Mama might have lying around uneaten.