The Alchemist's Pursuit

by Dave Duncan

  Nowhere was the hero of the saga identified except by the male pronoun. I had never seen Zorzi’s writing, but the hand looked nothing like the letters Domenico had forged, which had deceived donna Alina. I fetched out the Orio contract I had just filed and compared her signature with the book. Signatures are not the most reliable samples of handwriting, but the match was close enough to strengthen my suspicions. Since I had seen an identical book in the lady’s treasure box, I had to assume that she had written the filth.

  I had trouble imagining the most egotistical young toady regaling his mother with his prurient exploits and her paying him for it, but that was the only explanation that came to mind. How big a fortune had she squandered on her son’s vice? What must her marriage have been like that she had resorted to such vicarious entertainment?

  At first the entries were sporadic, as the hero took up the sport. After a few months’ practice he had became a satyr, rarely missing a night, sometimes enjoying two separate women in different places—or possibly he had just become a more creative and convincing liar, although it’s a rare man who can deceive his own mother. Besides, this sordid catalogue merely confirmed what Alessa had told me about his habits.

  I had no way of proving that the book was genuine, but I soon established that it was at least relevant to our search. A few rare mentions of Saints’ days instead of dates led me to a 1 Tuesday following a 28 Monday, and the universal calendar from our astrological bookshelf told me that I had found March 1586. As March 1 is New Year’s Day in Venice, I marked the place with a piece of paper and went looking for 1587. I rapidly established that the record ran from the summer of 1584 to December 23, 1587. There it stopped, a few hours before Gentile Michiel died. The book was either an incredible hoax or it was extremely germane.

  The last record consisted only of the name “Tonina Q” with no details, pornographic or otherwise. December 23 listed Caterina Lotto, who had apparently been an accomplished acrobat, but was doomed to be Honeycat’s third victim, in spite of her fearsome guardian, Matteo Surian. That discovery prompted me to go back to the beginning and riff through, listing each woman’s name and the date she first appeared. Venice is reputed to have ten thousand courtesans, but at the end Zorzi’s catalogue listed only sixty-seven, which seemed a quite modest total for a healthy youngster with unlimited money and minimal morals, over a period longer than Scheherazade’s thousand and one nights.

  When I had reached the end I worked backward, noting the last time each name appeared. That took me longer, but it confirmed that some names were mentioned only once, others frequently. I did not have time to count the number of times each name appeared, but I could identify his favorites, which included all four of Honeycat’s victims: Lucia da Bergamo, Caterina Lotto, Ruosa da Corone, and Marina Bortholuzzi. I also recognized the names of some highly regarded women whom Violetta had mentioned. Alessa appeared many times—she seemed to enjoy gondolas—but there was no mention of Violetta, to my heartfelt relief.

  Four single-mentions and three favorites were identified only by Christian names, the favorites being Chiara Q, Lodovica Q, and Tonina Q. Recalling donna Alina’s report of Zorzi defending a true love I noted that those might be the amateurs Domenico had mentioned, not courtesans—I could not bring myself to think of them as ladies, not in that company. Most of the seven bore unusual names, perhaps aliases.

  Apart from gondolas, the scenery mentioned included chairs, tables, and floors; also haystacks, grass, stables, and a coach, all which must have been on the mainland.

  At last we had the courtesan murders unarguably tied to Zorzi Michiel and in the morning we could start sending out warnings to any women Violetta and Alessa had missed. It was time for me to go. I checked that there was no light showing under the Maestro’s door and left the book and my notes on his side of the desk. I added a note: The Popess left this for you on Sunday.

  I hadn’t done my dusting.

  Again Giorgio rowed me to San Zulian. Normally I tell him what I am up to and the fact that I had not explained these midnight journeys was making him uneasy. Again I walked the deserted streets by feeble lantern light, for the moon was clouded over. This time I had only my shadow for company, not even a cat. Illogically, the fact that now I carried a fortune in gold under my shirt made me more nervous than before, as if thieves might somehow smell it from the shadows. I was actually happy to see the door with the grille. I was probably early and risked running into another scoundrel on a similar mission, but I had no intention of lingering outside any longer than I had to. I rapped the four-knock signal on the boards. Moments passed until I began to feel faint for lack of breathing, then a face appeared in the darkness behind the bars and I heard the bolt being drawn.

  It was not until we were both in the room with the table that either of us spoke. As before, Sciara wore black and a sardonic, cadaverous smirk.

  “Did you get it?” I asked, louder than I expected. The question was superfluous, because he had a coin balance waiting.

  He stood with his fingers on the table, looking across at me with a fixed, catlike stare. “Of course, or you would not have been admitted. I warn you, though, that some documents seem to be missing.”

  “What isn’t missing?”

  He shook his head. “I cannot say and will not look to see. First you pay, then I let you examine whatever was in the folder when I retrieved it. I swear that I have not opened it or looked inside. There is something in there, but not as much as there should be. No argument. Pay now or go.”

  The terms were unconscionable and the moment I brought out the gold, then that mysterious second door might swing open and Missier Grande march in to arrest me. If Sciara was just cheating me and there was nothing of value in the folder, I should have no recourse except to poke my rapier through him, but that would be no solution and little satisfaction. If I refused to trade, more women might die. I reached for the pouch.

  “You will understand,” he remarked as he began weighing the coins, “that I cannot furnish you with a receipt?”

  I pulled out the chair on my side of the table. “Of course we must trust each other. Let there be honor among thieves.”

  He showed his teeth in a satisfied leer at the balance. “Excellent, one grain over. You are generous.” He dropped the coins in a bag and hung it on his belt. He returned my money pouch.

  Only then did he pull out his chair and sit down. Reaching under the table, he produced a document folder, a large sheet of heavy paper with its corners folded over to make an envelope, tied up with ribbon. I could see right away from the older creases and dust marks that the package had been originally folded around much thicker contents. It had been plundered, perhaps quite recently.

  Sciara held it close to one of the lamps and scanned the writing on the outside. “Sier Giovanni . . . That’s odd. These usually begin with the original report to the chiefs of the Ten . . . The chiefs’ decision . . . a special meeting of the Three . . . Bless my soul, Their Excellencies met on the morning of Christmas Day! I don’t recall that ever happening.”

  “Why don’t we just see what’s in there?” I demanded, for the contents clearly could not match the length of the index.

  “Oh, the impetuosity of youth!” Sciara murmured, but he set to work on the binding.

  “Do documents often go missing from such files?”

  “Not since Domine Spataforta became grand chancellor.” He opened and spread out the cover, exposing about a dozen or so sheets of paper held together by ribbon. I could almost believe he was too embarrassed to meet my eye as he passed them across to me.

  I moaned. “Sixty ducats a page? I hardly dare touch such valuable material.” Few things taste more bitter than the knowledge that one has been played for a dupe. Sciara must be enjoying himself enormously, remembering past slights. I began at the back, where the earliest documents should be.

  The first was a report: Testimony of His Excellency, NH Giovanni Gradenigo, member of the Council of Three. Clea
rly he had made a formal report to his brother inquisitors, and the secretary had written it as if he were any ordinary witness. The man who had summoned me to his deathbed was about to speak to me from the grave.

  Gradenigo had been present in the dark and crowded atrium and was apparently quite close when Gentile Michiel was stabbed. His first warning had been a woman’s screams, followed by clamor from many throats. He had fought his way through the fleeing, panic-stricken mob, and it sounded as if he had been a large, or at least powerful, man. He found Gentile Michiel writhing on the floor, with donna Alina down there beside him, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood. Counselor Foscari, the “red” among the Three, arrived moments later. Normally an investigation would work its way up through the chiefs of the Ten to the full Council, and only then to the Three. In this case the state inquisitors had been right on the spot. They had seen the blood first-hand. But its setting within the holy precincts of the Basilica had made this a highly unusual case from the beginning.

  Either Pesaro or Foscari asked a question and the clerk had followed normal interrogation style:Question: The witness was asked if he recognized anyone who was close when the murder was committed.

  Answer: “No, there was complete confusion. People had fled in all directions. Donna Orio Michiel may be able to testify to that when she recovers, by God’s grace. We must pray that others will come forward.”

  Then Agostino Foscari took up the story, backing up Gradenigo’s version and going on to describe Michiel’s death, still down on the floor, waiting for medical help to arrive; not that doctors could have done anything for such a wound.

  Then came an exchange that hit me like a bolt of lightning.

  Question: The witness was asked if he observed the murder weapon.

  Answer: “I did. When we were certain that the victim had been gathered to the Father, and when poor donna Alina Orio had been escorted away, I watched Missier Grande remove the dagger from the corpse. He showed it to me and sier Giovanni.”

  Question: The witness was asked to describe the weapon.

  Answer: “It’s an ordinary straight dagger of landsknecht type, made in Germany. You could find a dozen of them for sale in the city. It’s probably a century or so old and has recently been sharpened.”

  For a moment I sat amid the thunder of our case against donna Alina crashing to the ground in ruins. Jacopo Fauro’s tale of the sack of Constantinople might be based on truth, but the khanjar dagger had absolutely nothing to do with his father’s murder. Why had I trusted him to tell the truth even sometimes?

  Without looking at Sciara, I forced my mind back to the work. The rest of that document told me nothing new. It ended at the bottom of the next page, in midsentence.

  The next sheet was an account of the Michiel family as it had been at the time. Bernardo was married then, which I had not known, and Domenico had one child by his morganatic spouse, Isabetta Scorozini. Lucretzia and Fedele had already entered the cloister. Zorzi was dismissed with the single word giovane.

  Then came a brief statement signed by Bernardo Michiel, written in the third person but almost certainly based on interrogation. As a bereaved patrician, he would have been treated with silk gloves. He described his illness on the crucial night, confirming everything he had told me and adding nothing new. The same went for statements by Domenico and donna Alina. Friar Fedele and Sister Lucretzia testified that they had been engaged in worship that Christmas Eve in the company of members of their respective orders. No doubt the inquisitors would have examined witnesses who could support the family members’ alibis, but those records were missing, perhaps thrown away as unnecessary once the official verdict was reached.

  They all, even Fedele, loyally supported Zorzi, dismissing the recent quarrel with his father as nothing new. Gentile had been threatening to disinherit the boy for years and had never carried through. The men all pointed out that his own record was far from perfect, despite the lofty standards he so hypocritically proclaimed.

  There was nothing at all by Zorzi Michiel, the convicted murderer, and that silence screamed of wrongness.

  I held out a hand. “May I look at that list of contents, please?”

  The death’s head smiled. “No. I promised only what was in the folder.”

  I silently consigned Sciara to Tartarus.

  I was left with one last piece of paper. The note on the back explained that it had been deposited in the bocca di leone in the church of San Geminiano on December 27. It was brief:

  To the noble Council of Ten—

  I am a fallen woman, a sinner, but I will not defend a murderer. The man who stabbed Senator Michiel in the Basilica talks in his sleep and last night I heard him say he killed his father. He said so several times quite clearly, weeping. His name is Zorzi Michiel. He has a birthmark in the shape of a cat near his private parts, which is why he is called Honeycat. So may you know him.

  I felt cold fingertips run down my back. I looked up quickly and caught the tail end of a smirk. Despite his denials, Sciara had known what I would find in the file. I held the paper up to the lamp, but it was cheap stuff with no watermark.

  “The Republic maintains that its tribunals pay no heed to anonymous letters,” I said.

  He nodded. “That is correct.”

  “Correct that they say that is what they do, or correct that they do what they say?”

  He favored me with one of his rotting-corpse smiles. “In practice, Their Excellencies do have certain stringent procedures for evaluating unsigned submittals. In the case of the Ten, an anonymous letter is examined by the three chiefs and the six ducal counselors sitting together, and only if those nine are unanimous is it brought before the full council, and the council must vote five-sixths in favor of considering it. Even after that, a four-fifths majority is needed before action can be taken.”

  Would those safeguards have been observed in the most egregious crime Venice had known in centuries? Surely any lead at all would have been followed up. If the inquisitors suddenly and unanimously decided that they should lock up the prime suspect for a few days and nights and post witnesses to listen to his snoring, no one would ask what had given them such brilliant simultaneous brain waves.

  “If that paper you are studying is indeed unsigned,” Sciara continued, “then most likely it was left in the folder precisely because it was deemed to be worthless.”

  “You are implying, lustrissimo, that anything worthwhile has been removed?”

  “Oh no, I did not say that, sier Alfeo.”

  He was very adept at implying without saying. I could never hope to know whether the file had been censored just prior to my seeing it or at some earlier time for some other reason. I handed the papers back in silence and stood up.

  Sciara displayed mild surprise. “So soon? You must have a remarkable memory.”

  “I have better things to do at this time of night,” I said. I bowed and turned to the door.

  “I am truly sorry your time was wasted, clarissimo.”

  “It was not wasted, lustrissimo.”

  I wanted him to think I had learned more than he knew.

  In fact, I had learned more than I knew.

  25

  The Maestro appeared earlier than usual that morning; I was still sweeping the floor when he came stumping into the atelier, leaning on his staff. The absence of the canes was meant to show that he had recovered. I opened my mouth to congratulate him and he cut me off.

  “What’s that?” He pointed to the book on his desk.

  I told him. He changed direction and went to sit there, instead of in the red chair, and I knew he really must be feeling better. By the time I had put the broom away and returned, he had laid down both the pornography and my notes and was leaning back in his chair, scowling.

  “What did you learn from Sciara last night?”

  I sat opposite and told him, quoting the documents word for word, or very nearly so. “We have no case left against donna Alina,” I conc
luded. “I should have realized sooner that Jacopo is not merely a liar but an addicted liar. Apparently he never tells the truth if he can fool you with a good yarn. That’s an interesting defense, isn’t it—if you are known to be perpetually untruthful, you cannot be caught out in a lie?”

  The Maestro’s scowl did not change. He tapped the book. “And this sewage?”

  “The wheel of fortune turns. We can’t use the dagger to make a case against the lady, but now we know for certain that someone in the Palazzo Michiel is killing courtesans. It was written by donna Alina, I think. The writing fits her signature, both on your contract and on the statement I saw last night. I glimpsed either that book or an identical one in the casket where she keeps Zorzi’s letters. Seems she gave him money and he repaid her with dirty stories. I doubt that he knew she was keeping a record. Sister Lucretzia left it on your armillary sphere when she was here on Sunday. I didn’t notice it until last night.”

  Neither had my master, so he couldn’t scold me for being unobservant.

  “It is not the sort of uplifting literature I associate with nuns.”

  “Nor I, master. She had just come from the family reunion. Either someone gave her the book at the house or she stole it. The casket has no lock, just a ward—you spread both hands on the lid and say, ‘My dearest treasure.’ That’s all; easy enough to spot if you know about such things.”

  “Why?” he demanded, eyes narrow.

  “Why did she steal the book? I don’t know.”

  “Why do you think she stole it?”

  I had met all these people; he had not. “Assuming Lucretzia was told about the murdered courtesans—and I think they were the subject of the family gathering—she must recognize the book as evidence that someone in Palazzo Michiel is at least involved and likely the actual killer. Whether she intended to destroy the evidence and changed her mind, or knew that Fedele was going to stop in here and try to prevent you from investigating their father’s death . . . or perhaps Fedele himself put her up to it. What do you think?”