The Alchemist's Pursuit

by Dave Duncan

  “Matteo saw the fake friar!” I protested. “He may be able to recognize the man’s voice.”

  Still the bouncer scowled. “We only have his word for it that there was a fake friar.”

  I thought there would be sudden murder done then, but the other men intervened, supporting Matteo. I excused myself and went upstairs to see Alessa, being admitted to the piano nobile by Luigi and Giulio. Number 96 was certainly the best-guarded brothel in town that night.

  Alessa was entertaining guests—some of her own employees, judging by the female chatter I could hear from the corridor. She peered out to inspect me, looking imperially displeased.

  I produced the note but gave her no hints, asking only, “Does this look genuine?”

  She read it and pulled a face. “The handwriting is nothing like.”

  “No. How about the words?”

  “Trash. And Zorzi would have written it in Greek hexameters.” Alessa was a great deal smarter than Caterina.

  “I love you,” I said, taking the note back.

  “Not tonight, thank you.” She shut the door on me.

  Downstairs, I found that a compromise had been reached. Matteo would be allowed to share in the guarding, but only downstairs. There he could listen for the fake Honeycat’s voice. He seemed content with that and it suited me also, because the chiefs of the Ten would want to speak with him, and now I knew where he was.

  “It looks good,” I told the Maestro. “Next door, that is. It’s garrisoned like a fortress, and anyway I can’t believe that Honeycat, real or fake, is going to be stupid enough to try a frontal assault.”

  “Neither can I,” he admitted cheerfully. “But I think he’ll do something. Now we’ll need a covering letter to the chiefs explaining where we got that note. And when, too.”

  The writing did not take me long, but I had to unwrap the package and reseal it. Time was running out if I wanted to deliver this to the chiefs before the entire Council met, which I very much did. It would be a peace offering, a letter of surrender. The Lord alone knew what the Ten might decide to do to me if it heard I had been back to Palazzo Michiel after Fulgentio delivered his warning.

  “I’ll tell Giorgio,” I said, rising.

  “Later. Tell Mama we need to eat as soon as she’s ready.”

  “I can eat when I get back.”

  He chuckled. “And exactly when will that be? August? Go tell her.”

  I sighed, “Yes, master,” and did so. He just could not bring himself to give up yet.

  Mama said Bisato Anguilla Sull’ara ready in five minutes. Nostradamus would need that long just to get into the dining room, so I went back and told him supper was ready.

  I got one mouthful before the door knocker sounded.

  29

  I looked to the Maestro for instructions.

  He was smirking like a mummified monkey: surely this time someone had taken his bait? “Get it. Use your discretion.”

  My discretion said my wisest move would be to retrace the steps of Marco Polo on a fast camel, but I headed out obediently. This time the visitors were a lesser surprise than Matteo—Bernardo and Domenico Michiel, grim and imposing in their black patrician robes and tippets. I hauled the door wide and bowed low.

  “Messere! You honor my master’s house.”

  Evidently they agreed with that, because they strode in past me without a word. I led them to the atelier and its two green chairs.

  “My master will be here directly, messere . . . Lamps . . .” I lit a dozen candles in the chandelier, using a long taper, not the Word, and by then the Maestro was hobbling in through the doorway, tapping the floor with his staff. I presented him to the noble guests. As soon as he was seated, I headed to my place at the desk, where the package still lay in its wrapping.

  He beamed without showing his teeth. “How may I serve you, messere?”

  Domenico spoke first, which surprised me. “You claim to have in your possession a book belonging to our mother. Will you please let us see this book?”

  The Maestro leaned back to consider this request. “My apprentice has spent the entire afternoon preparing an account of this volume for the benefit of the noble Council of Ten, explaining how we obtained it. Had you arrived only a few minutes later, messere, he would have been on his way to the palace with it. You may, if you wish, accompany him to assure yourselves that I am telling the truth. Otherwise I am willing to show you the book, or a page or two of it at least, but you will first agree that it is in my custody and you have no claim to remove it. You must guarantee that there will be no unseemly squabbles or attempts to appropriate it.”

  Bernardo swelled like a bullfrog but got no further than, “Doctor . . .” before Domenico laid a hand on his arm to silence him.

  “We shall be happy to abide by those terms, lustrissimo.”

  Nostradamus nodded to me. I broke the seals, unwrapped the parcel again, and produced the offensive diary. I took it across to them. Again it was Domenico who took charge, accepting the book with his left hand and then opening it so that his brother could see also.

  It was at once obvious that they had been warned what to expect. After one glance Bernardo averted his face. Domenico tried several pages at random before slapping it shut and handing it back to me. Had Jacopo described the contents for them, or had they cross-examined their mother? I took the book over to the desk.

  “The illustrious lords and I shall need no record of our discussion,” the Maestro told me. “You may go and finish what you were doing.”

  I departed, but without umbrage, because I knew what he really meant me to do in the dining room. The spyhole there provides an excellent view of the atelier. Domenico (tall) and Bernardo (wide) had their backs to me, but I could watch my master’s face and hear everything being said.

  “. . . understand your concern,” the Maestro was saying, “and it does you both credit, but filial duty must sometimes come second to our obligations to the Republic.”

  “Never fear that we understand that completely,” Bernardo proclaimed, “but the laws of Venice recognize that there are persons whose responsibility is lessened, persons whom circumstance or the Good Lord in His wisdom have tasked so hard that they cannot now be judged by quite the same standards as we more fortunate folk. Donna Alina was quite unhinged by the tragedy of our father’s death, an infamous and sacrilegious outrage committed before her very eyes, and followed so suddenly by the Ten’s condemnation of her son and his flight. I confess that she suffered a breakdown that prostrated her for many months, and indeed one may argue with some justification that she has never recovered her former peace of mind, nor thrown off the sorrows that haunt her.”

  “Both you and she have my deepest sympathy,” Nostradamus retorted, “but you admitted a moment ago that the book is in her handwriting. I have attested that it contains the names of four recent murder victims, a connection that cannot be passed off as sheer happenstance. Furthermore, and most importantly, the book appears to have been written prior to your father’s death and the ordeal you describe.”

  Bernardo tried again. “I will not contest those statements, lustrissimo. And I will go so far as to admit that our mother was acting oddly even then. Our father kept the fact concealed from us and I blame myself, as the eldest child, for not comprehending soon enough the difficulties that beset their marriage. It was only after his tragic passing that we appreciated the situation. In the space of ten years, she had borne five children who lived, and she may have had miscarriages also.”

  The Michiels had come a long way in the last three or four days. From outright denial that there was smoke, they were now offering a fire of diminished responsibility.

  “There may well be extenuating circumstances,” Nostradamus said, “but that is for the Council to determine, not me. The salient fact is that the book is evidence in a series of murders and I have an absolute duty to turn it over to the Council. With deepest regret I must decline your request.”

  Domenico t
ook over. He was, I had decided, by far the smarter of the two. Bernardo was all thunder and no lightning.

  “You are not suggesting, I hope, that our lady mother has been going around strangling and stabbing people? She almost never leaves the house, and then only to go to church, accompanied always by servants or family. She couldn’t even find the Rialto on her own.”

  “No, messer. I agree that blades and silken cords are not ladies’ weapons. Poison often is. The bravo is.”

  “And just how would our dear mother go about finding and then hiring an assassin?”

  “She would use an accomplice,” Nostradamus said with a hint of impatience. “And you know to whom I refer.”

  “Jacopo,” Domenico said sharply, “is the second reason we came to see you, Doctor. To warn you, in effect. Jacopo Fauro is completely incapable of separating truth from fiction, even concerning inconsequential trivia. He’s a pleasant enough lad and quite useful at times. We are fond of him or he would have been sent packing years ago, but he has this infuriating lack of veracity. Nothing he told you can be trusted.”

  Nostradamus nodded, solemn and sincere. “I am greatly relieved to hear this, clarissimo. I was seriously concerned by some of what I was hearing. For example, he told Alfeo that your honored father was stabbed with the same khanjar dagger you keep in a display case.”

  “Oh, saints preserve us!” Bernardo exclaimed. “You think we would keep it around to remind us if that were true? That is an utter falsehood, quite typical.”

  “And he has given us several accounts of what his duties are—not that those are any of my business directly,” the Maestro added quickly. “But it might shorten this discussion if I had a better idea of what is likely and unlikely. He is your business partner, sier Domenico?”

  “No, he is not my business partner! Far from it. Not even my messenger boy. He does have a remarkable eye for style and proportions, and I ask his opinion on those quite often, but no more than that. We tried to put his talent to work by apprenticing him to a builder and later to an artist; and several other people, too, but none of them could tolerate him for long. He spouts more fables than Aesop! If I were to let him near anyone I was doing business with, the Quarantia would be convicting me of fraud in no time.”

  The Maestro nodded understandingly. Knowing him as I do, I could tell that he was enjoying himself hugely. “It is a great shame. As you say, the boy has charm and talents. You keep a diary, sier Bernardo?”

  There was a perceptible pause before the man addressed replied, “No. What did my miscreant half-brother tell you about that?”

  “Nothing at all, which I found interesting. No diary? You, sier Domenico?”

  “Not I, either.”

  Bernardo cleared his throat. “I do keep a notebook of my political dealings, lustrissimo.” He was on his best behavior, much more gracious than he had ever been to me. “A sort of ledger, really. You must understand that politics is largely concerned with mutual back scratching. At every meeting of the Grand Council I cast my vote to oblige sier Piero on one issue and sier Polo on another. Someday they will return the favor. If the matter is really important, I may persuade my brother to accompany me and cast his vote also. I need to keep track. What on earth has that to do with the present topic?”

  “Everything. It has cost four women their lives.”

  “I think you had better explain that accusation,” Bernardo said coldly.

  “Last September, were you not summoned to the bedside of the late Agostino Foscari? It might have been you, sier Domenico, but I judge the family politician to be a more likely choice.” He received a nod from Bernardo. “And did not Foscari, right there on his deathbed, break his ancient oath of office by divulging to you a secret he had guarded for the last eight years of his life? Thus he eased a great burden on his conscience and laid one on yours. Was his confessor present, by the way? He probably instigated this repentance.”

  Pause. “Who told you this bizarre story?”

  The Maestro stretched his lips in a wicked grin. “Mostly your mother, although she was not aware that she was doing so. She mentioned to Alfeo that the Council of Ten did not interview her again after Zorzi fled into voluntary exile. That is extraordinary! If the Ten had wanted to know where he had gone, surely his mother would have been the first person to ask? Granted she is of patrician stock and they would treat her more gently than they would a woman of the lower classes, she still should have been questioned.”

  The brothers exchanged glances and Domenico said, “Keep talking.”

  “The timing of events requires that some specific incident triggered the recent murders, but there is no point in continuing this conversation if I am mistaken. Well, did Agostino Foscari send for you when he was dying, sier Bernardo?”

  “He . . . Yes he did.” It would have been easier to pull Bernardo’s ribs out than information.

  “And did you pass on the secret he told you to any other members of your family? Back in September, I mean?”

  “That is irrelevant,” Domenico said. “Surely?”

  “No.” The Maestro was making little effort now to hide his pleasure at taunting the two patricians. “Foscari was an inquisitor when your father was murdered, of course. Another of the Three was messer Giovanni Gradenigo, who departed this world only last week. Nearing his end he sent for me, which was a strange choice, because we had never met. Alfeo went in my stead but did not arrive in time to learn what the dying man had wanted to tell me. He did learn that Gradenigo had become upset upon being informed of the death of the courtesan Caterina Lotto. At first I suspected he may have known her personally. It seems that this was not his style, but she had been one of Zorzi’s associates, so it is more likely that Gradenigo met her when the Three interrogated her at the time of Gentile’s death.”

  “You are building castles in the clouds!” Bernardo said. “Zorzi ‘associated,’ as you call it, with half the harlots of Venice.”

  “But,” the Maestro persisted, “two others were dead by then and Gradenigo had been informed of them also; that is a reasonable hypothesis, at least. There is no point in continuing this conversation if I am wrong, so I must ask you outright, sier Bernardo, did Agostino Foscari tell you that one such woman reported overhearing your brother confess to the crime of patricide?”

  “Yes.”

  Surprise! I had expected Bernardo to refuse to answer. Either he could see that the Maestro would then ask how many more women must die before he would face facts, or else he was being especially forthcoming in order to distance himself from the fork-tongued Jacopo. For me, the eavesdropper, it was teeth-clenching time. If the Maestro’s question were quoted to the Ten, they must suspect that he had bribed an official to reveal state secrets. If they suspected, they would investigate.

  “Did he name this informant?”

  Bernardo growled. “No. Doctor, is it possible that eventually, in the fulness of time, we may come to an explanation of this windstorm?”

  “I hope so, messer. Foscari died in September. Let us move on to the curious events of December. Your mother keeps her confidential papers in a warded box. To open it one must know both the words and gestures of a minor spell. You, sier Bernardo, keep your ‘political ledger’ as you call it, in a similar box?”

  Bernardo mumbled something I could not hear.

  The Maestro did. “I thought so. Those caskets may seem secure to the uninformed, but in reality they are not. Any reasonably skilled practitioner of the dark arts could override the minor spell with a stronger. They cannot long withstand even a gifted busybody like your Jacopo Fauro. He must have broken your mother’s code, perhaps years ago. At some time he overheard your words. At another, perhaps, he witnessed your actions. Last December he opened your casket in your absence and read through your diary. He learned Foscari’s secret—and sold it to your mother!”

  Domenico laughed. “Lustrissimo, you certainly have managed some high-class snooping of your own, but a lot of what you are spo
uting is mere speculation. If you are trying to befuddle us into telling you this supposed dark secret that the dying Foscari supposedly imparted to my brother, then you are wasting your time and ours.”

  “I already know the secret, clarissimo.” The Maestro put his fingertips together, five on five, as he does when he plans to deliver a lecture. “The truth is that Zorzi Michiel never fled into voluntary exile. He never left Venice.”

  “Who told you this?” Bernardo growled. “And by asking that, I am not conceding that what you say has any merit.”

  “No? I told you earlier—your mother told me. Her favorite son vanished without saying farewell or dropping her a note. He did not warn either of you that he was going, or you would have started comforting her with forged letters right away, instead of weeks or months later. The Ten never questioned her as to where he might have gone. They announced his guilt rather than reveal how he had died. Do I have it right?”

  The silence was answer enough.

  This was the secret too dangerous for me to know.

  It explained why the Ten was so determined to stop any reopening of the Gentile Michiel case, and it totally changed the range of possible motives for the courtesan murders.

  “Revenge,” the Maestro said softly, as if he had overheard my thought. “Eight years ago your brother was denounced as a patricide in an anonymous letter. A woman gave false witness and now someone is going around killing anyone who might be that perjurer. Four women dead, at least three of them innocent.” He waited, but neither of his listeners spoke.

  Why hadn’t I seen this? He had guessed because his quatrain had prophesied blind vengeance.

  “I do not know who that spiteful snitch was and I have been trying to convince the Ten that I have no interest in anything connected with the death of Gentile Michiel. That secret is safe with me. But the current murders must be stopped. That is what matters.

  “Tonight, messere, this case has come to a head. An additional piece of evidence has come into my possession. One of the murdered courtesans, Caterina Lotto, was deceived by a note that purported to come from your late brother. The sbirri hunted for it, but it was not found until today and then it was brought to me. Obviously it should have gone directly to the Ten and I must turn it in right away. I will also testify that the handwriting is that of your half-brother, Jacopo Fauro.”