The Alchemist's Apprentice

by Dave Duncan

She curtseyed. “My most sincere sympathy on your loss, Bene.”

  “You are no nun!”

  She smiled. “As you well know.”

  “What do you want with my sister? Why does a harlot force herself on a girl of patrician rank? She says you were here yesterday, too.”

  “I came to help her, Benedetto.”

  “Help her? Help her in what way?”

  He had recovered from his first shock and was moving swiftly to anger. Had I been alone I might have taken to my heels, but I was much more frightened about what might happen to Violetta than I was about any danger to me.

  Aspasia remained serene and confident. “How are you enjoying Padua?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Who suggested you go there?” Her smile would have dissolved the stoniest heart. “Be fair, Benedetto! Admit that you have benefitted from my help in the past. When I made you welcome in my bed, you called me courtesan, not that other word.”

  He colored. “State your business!”

  She sighed. “May I present sier Alfeo Zeno? Will you listen to what he has to say, please, Benedetto? Then you will see why this is important.”

  At a glance Benedetto assessed my best outfit as rags and me as poor trash, probably her pimp. He barely nodded to my bow.

  “Clarissimo,” I said, “my sympathy on your sad loss. The news I bring can only increase the pain. Your honored grandfather,” and I pointed up at the painting, “was murdered.”

  He bristled. “I give you two minutes to justify that remark.”

  “One will suffice. You have no doubt heard gossip that the procurator’s death was prophesied in a horoscope prepared for him by Maestro Nostradamus. Your sister may have told you that the doctor Nostradamus who came to his aid when he took ill at the supper party was the same man. He immediately recognized the symptoms of a certain poison. Whether you believe in astrology, as your grandfather did, or scoff at it like His Serenity Pietro Moro, you must acknowledge that Nostradamus is a celebrated doctor. He says that your grandfather was poisoned. I am helping him discover who did this terrible thing.”

  Sier Benedetto rallied. “On whose authority? Is the Grand Council so desperate for candidates that it is electing boys as state inquisitors?”

  “I was instructed to make these inquiries by a close friend of your grandfather’s, Pietro Moro himself.”

  He glanced at my sword and then said, “Rubbish! Have you tried to tell my father this? You expect me to believe it?”

  Actually I did not, but I was determined to keep trying, because the alternative was excessively unappealing. “I assure you, clarissimo, that His Serenity granted me not just one, but two, audiences on this matter yesterday. You have heard of the Greek, Alexius Karagounis, who was selling the books?” Receiving a nod, I forged ahead, trying to seem as assured as Violetta. “This morning I called upon Alexius Karagounis, being assisted in my inquiries by the vizio, Filiberto Vasco.”

  “So?” But Vasco’s name had sown a seed of doubt.

  “Rather than answer our questions, Karagounis leaped out a window to his death, clarissimo.”

  Workmen with ladders had started taking down the paintings and propping them against the walls, ready for carpenters to come and crate them. I should have preferred a more private meeting place, but there probably wasn’t one in the house.

  Under happier circumstances, the turmoil of conflicting emotions in Benedetto’s face would have been amusing. “So you consort with the vizio as well as the doge?”

  “Reluctantly. Missier Grande and Circospetto are also cooperating. I have no official standing, but the Republic is backing my inquiries.” And all of them would deny me if asked.

  “Sier Alfeo is being modest, Bene,” Violetta said. “This morning he was set upon and almost murdered by a gang of bravos.”

  “I am not surprised to hear it.”

  Wearing a sword carries certain obligations and I had taken as much as I could reasonably be expected to stand. Despite the throbbing pain in my leg, I laid a hand on my sword hilt. “Messer, you hide behind a claim of injury or of nervous prostration brought on by grief?”

  He paled. “You dare?”

  “My name is written in the Golden Book. Yours does not deserve to be.”

  “Stop that, both of you!” Medea’s eyes flashed fire. “Bene, you should withdraw your remark.”

  He bit his lip. “I spoke without thinking, clarissimo.”

  “And I in haste.” We bowed to each other. My standing had improved.

  “I have good reason to believe that the attack on me was related to the matter of your grandfather’s murder.”

  Young Benedetto was visibly drooping under the load we had just piled on his shoulders. He made an effort to straighten them. “My father must be informed of all this. And the first thing he will ask is why the state inquisitors are employing a…” He looked at me in disbelief. “This nobleman to conduct their inquiries for them.”

  “It is a tribute to the esteem in which your late grandfather was held,” I told him. “Do you really want your sister interrogated by the Three? Everyone is trying to head off formal proceedings that must be a harrowing experience to those involved. For example, where were you on Saint Valentine’s Eve?”

  His outrage did not convince. “You dare suspect me?”

  “You think the Three will not?”

  “I don’t care if they do.” That was juvenile bravado and unbelievable. “I was not even in the city. I was in Padua—in jail. There was a duel and I was accused of drawing first.” Hence the sling, of course. It was probably a sound alibi and I would get nowhere by asking to see his wound.

  “I hope you killed him?” Helen asked sweetly.

  He turned to her in anger, but her smile can melt any man. It won a tiny, shamefaced grin. “I didn’t get near him. But I will next time.” Then he swung back to me. “If what you say is true, clarissimo, the Greek’s suicide was an admission of guilt.”

  I shrugged. “My master has good reason to believe that it was not, strange as that may seem. But you are undoubtedly right if you think that the Ten are likely to accept that explanation. And in that case your grandfather’s killer will escape to enjoy the benefits of his crime. Is that acceptable to you and your honored father?”

  Before he could answer, I continued. “Obviously if you were in Padua that night, you were not the killer. Your father was not in the Imer house either. But your sister was. No!” I raised both hands to hold back an explosion. “I am not suggesting that she poisoned your grandfather. But she may have seen something vital. I beg you, clarissimo, to allow us to ask her a few simple questions. It will not take long.”

  Benedetto was out of his depth. He had much growing up to do yet. “Tell me your questions and I shall go and put them to her.”

  I set my jaw in the notch labeled stubborn. “My master’s orders are that I speak with her in person, messer.”

  “Then you must call on her when my father is present.”

  “I have only one more day to complete my investigation before I must report to the authorities. Shall I say that your honored sister refused to answer my questions?”

  “That is a foul lie!”

  “Then I must tell the truth, which is that she was not permitted to. Expect Missier Grande to come calling tomorrow.” I bowed and offered my arm to Violetta.

  She cried, “Oh, no, Alfeo! How awful for her!”

  “Wait!” Benedetto snarled. “Did you tell her that you and I were once intimate?”

  Violetta’s eyes twinkled like stars. “Only once, Bene? You were never satisfied with once. But no, I certainly did not mention that to her. I never discuss my patrons with anybody.”

  “If I permit this, then you will remain Sister Maddalena in her presence and you will never have anything to do with my sister ever again, is that agreed—no visits, no letters, nothing?”

  “Bene, you know you can rely on my discretion. Of course.”

&nb
sp; “And you will never pester her either, Zeno.”

  “Certainly.” I bowed.

  “Wait here!” His heels went clicking away across the terrazzo to the door.

  “You did that beautifully, my dear,” Helen purred, easing me away from the Titian as the ladder crew closed in on it. We wandered towards the empty center of the big room.

  “You did more than I did. How long were you a friend of messer Benedetto?”

  She smiled cryptically. “I never discuss my patrons.”

  “Then discuss his grandfather. Why did somebody hate him enough to murder him?”

  I thought for a moment she would not answer, but she was just working out what she would tell me.

  “He was strict, and had his own ideas. You know that rich families sometimes hire a courtesan as tutor when a boy reaches the age to study calligraphy?”

  “Penmanship?”

  “Joined-up writhing.”

  I laughed. “Yes, Aspasia.”

  “And physical intimacy may blossom into friendship. I recall one young man who was very upset and desperately wanted my advice. He said his grandfather was planning to launch his political career right away by entering him in the Santa Barbara’s Day lottery.”

  Every December the Great Council admits thirty youngsters as young as twenty, the creamiest of the cream, scions destined for greatness. The odds of winning a seat are good for anyone, and I would have been very surprised if an Orseolo had failed to win, because there are ways to adjust lotteries. Putrid would do it if I told him to. You should know by now why I never would, but there are other practitioners of the occult in the Republic and some have nothing left to lose.

  “The young man in question,” she continued, “did not want that. He wanted to get away from home, poor little rich boy. He babbled about volunteering to be a gentleman archer on a galley. His ambition was to be a sailor, a great merchant trader like his ancestors. His grandfather would have blocked him. I suggested he ask to study law at the University of Padua. The old man accepted that compromise. It got him out of the city, at least.”

  “Is Benedetto a good swordsman?”

  “If you mean that literally and are not just being vulgar, I have no idea. Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  Around any university you will find almost as many expert swordsmen as fleas. Pick a fight with one good enough to claim first blood without doing any serious damage, be first to draw so that you end up in jail, and you have an excellent alibi. I could not imagine why Benedetto Orseolo would have wanted an alibi. I am just a cynic.

  15

  Bianca entered on her brother’s arm. She was swathed in black, even to a full veil, although I could make out enough of her features through the lace to recall Giuseppe Benzon describing her as “fiery.” In fact she was gorgeous, with a heart-shaped face and eyes the size of cartwheels. She exchanged greetings with Sister Maddalena and curtseyed to my bow.

  “Remember,” Enrico said, “that you do not have to answer this man’s questions, none of them.” He scowled unhelpfully at me.

  “Madonna,” I said, “I am apprenticed to Maestro Nostradamus, whom you met the other night. There is reason to believe that your honored grandfather was poisoned at that reception, and we are trying to discover the culprit and bring him to justice. I deeply regret intruding on your time of grief, but you will agree that I offend in a good cause?”

  She nodded, keeping her eyes downcast even behind the veil. Workmen at the far end of the hall were laying out lumber to start crating up the pictures, as if determined to make the interview even more difficult.

  “Did you often accompany him to such social affairs?”

  She shook her head. I waited.

  “No,” she whispered. “He rarely left the Procuratie any more. He was getting so unsteady…” More silence. “He was forced to use a cane and his right hand was bent. He called me his hands, clarissimo.”

  “That evening, he went straight to the book viewing from this building?”

  She nodded again, but this time spoke more strongly. “Yes. We went in the gondola. It is not far. He did not see well in the dark and it was raining a little. But he very much wanted to acquire some of the books. He was quite excited.”

  Wonder of wonders!—I had found a cooperative witness at last.

  “Did he eat or drink anything before he left here? In the hour or so before?”

  “It was not possible. He had been at a meeting downstairs, in the offices. He sent a clerk up to summon me and I went down to him.”

  “Excellent! That is very important information! I do not wish to pry needlessly, but did he say anything unusual in the gondola? Was he angry about anything, or upset?”

  “No, messer. He spoke about one of the books, a play. He said he was convinced that it was genuine but he wanted to take another look at it. He would gladly pay several thousand ducats for it, he said. But I mustn’t tell any of the other buyers he had said so.”

  “And what happened when you arrived at the Imer house?”

  “We climbed the stairs together,” Bianca said, and now she was telling the story as if eager to do so. “He was slow. Attorney Imer welcomed us, and presented his wife…He took Grandfather into the book room. I made my excuses to the lady and followed, because I thought he would want me with him.”

  “You were offered wine when?”

  “Ah, before that, when we arrived.”

  “And you chose which?”

  “I took malmsey. Grandfather had retsina.”

  I waited for mention of a family joke, but it did not appear. But she did! She made an annoyed sound and lifted her veil back, as if it were getting in her way. She did not quite smile at me—indeed she did not even look straight at me, which would have given her brother cause to snap at her—but I found the change a great improvement. The footman, Giuseppe Benzon, had excellent taste in feminine temperature. Pyretic, she was. She was quite nubile enough to be enfolded in my strong arms and comforted by sympathetic words murmured into her shell-like ear.

  I bowed low in admiration, provoking scowls from both Medea and Benedetto. “How welcome is sunlight when it breaks through the clouds!” Such talk would be a well-deserved novelty for a cloistered beauty like Bianca. “Tell me about the viewing, then. How many people were at the table when you arrived?”

  Her account confirmed the Maestro’s. When she entered, he had been there, and Karagounis, and Senator Tirali, and her grandfather. Then the foreign couple had arrived and started asking the Maestro a lot of questions in a language Bianca did not know.

  “And then…another man…”

  “I know who you mean,” I said. “An old friend in crimson robes?”

  She smiled then, but not right at me. “I thought I was seeing things.”

  “Who was this old friend?” her brother demanded.

  I could not resist saying, “That is a state secret. He came to speak to your grandfather?”

  Bianca said, “Oh, yes, clarissimo. They greeted each other warmly. He asked him…The friend asked Grandfather if his health would let him come to dine at the, um, his house, and he said it would.”

  She had been excited by the thought that she might get to visit the palace too.

  “Did they discuss the books?” I asked.

  She thought for a moment. “I think the, um, other man, asked if they were all the same ones they had seen before. And Grandfather said they seemed to be. And there was one they agreed might be a fake—I’m not sure which. I think Maestro Nostradamus had been saying it was, also.”

  I wondered briefly how far those two old friends had lied to each other about the presumed Euripides, and if even my master’s evaluation had been completely honest. Collectors can be as ruthless as hyenas. Yet the doge had withdrawn his bid after that, or so he had said. Had he been dissuaded, or had he decided to let his old friend have the treasure? Or had he lied to me?

  “Madonna, can you recollect where everyone was standing?”
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  “That is a ridiculous question!” her brother snarled. “Bianca, you don’t have to endure this.”

  “I am anxious to help sier Alfeo, Bene. They did keep moving around. They all wanted to see the books, understand, but none of them wanted to show too much interest in the ones they thought special, in case they alerted the others to their interest.” Bianca was sharp, obviously. “So they walked back and forth along the table, picking them up and putting them down. The Greek man trotted along beside them, chattering all the time. Lustrissimo Imer came in a few times. And then another man I did not know, a younger man, and spoke with Senator Tirali. He had a lady with him.”

  Despite the downcast eyes and carefully flat tone, I realized instantly that Bianca knew perfectly well who Sister Maddalena was. Bianca was a very observant young woman. Whether Violetta’s nun disguise had failed to deceive her the previous day, or Violetta had deceived me, Bianca was now deceiving her pompous brother and enjoying the joke. Maybe San Giovanni Evangelista di Torcello was the place for her after all.

  “That was sier Pasqual, the senator’s son. Anyone else?”

  “Two footmen came in a few times, offering more wine.” She gave excellent descriptions of both Benzon and Pulaki Guarana. The outing had been exciting for her, and she had observed details that the older witnesses had missed or forgotten. “I refused more, having drunk very little. Grandfather allowed them to top up his glass once. I did not see how much he had drunk, messer.” She was clever enough to know what I needed to hear.

  The workmen were now wrapping the pictures in canvas and rope. At least they had not started sawing and hammering.

  “When you all went off to join the other guests,” I asked. “Did people take their wineglasses with them?”

  For the first time Bianca turned her eyes full on me. Had circumstances permitted, I could have melted on the spot very realistically.

  “I do not know what the others did, messer Alfeo. I laid mine down so I could assist my grandfather. He drained his glass and handed it to me in exchange for his cane, which I had been holding. And he pulled a face.”

  “What sort of face?” Benedetto demanded.