The Alchemist's Apprentice

by Dave Duncan

  My second problem was that the doge was not playing by the rules.

  I did mention, did I not, that the Republic likes to keep things complicated? Since no one in government trusts anyone else, matters are arranged so that every man will have others watching him. The Council of Ten consists of seventeen men, with a state prosecutor present to advise on the law, and sometimes with another fifteen or more men added, when things look so nasty that the blame must be widely spread. The Ten’s agenda is set by the three “chiefs of the Ten,” who are elected anew each month and must remain within the Doges’ Palace during their terms. They each hold one of the three keys needed to open the Ten’s “Lion’s Mouth” drop box. It was to them that I ought to be reporting evidence of murder, and if they demanded to know why I wanted to meet with Raffaino Sciara in person, I would have to do some creative talking.

  There are several ways into the palace. I had chosen to go by way of the Piazzetta and the Porta della Carta because I might have to send Bruno away and it would be easier for him to find Giorgio by retracing his steps—the Rio di Palazzo is so narrow that gondolas are not allowed to linger at the watergate. We stepped through into the great arched passage beyond, where lamplight hung like golden spheres in the fog, barely reaching the paving below. A guard slammed the butt of his pike down and demanded to know who went there. What was visible of him between his breastplate and the brim of his helmet looked thirty years older than he sounded, but I think it was just his first glimpse of Bruno that made his voice so boyishly shrill.

  I introduced myself and explained that I had urgent business for Circospetto. We were ordered to wait. One man went into the guard room, two more came out to keep an eye on Bruno. A fourth was sent off to report to someone. Time passed. Graveyard cold seeped into my bones; fog spitefully saturated all my clothes. I wished someone would offer me a seat, preferably close to a fire.

  The messenger returned and hurried into the guard room to report. Two men emerged and one of them told us to follow them, which was a good sign, I supposed. The other followed us. Halfway across the courtyard the signs became very bad when I saw that we were heading to the watergate beside the Wells, which was not the route by which honored visitors were taken to anywhere. Sure enough, we were led up the same, narrow stairs I had climbed when Sciara brought me in. They were a trial for Bruno, who had to stoop low to get through some of the brick arches.

  Three storeys up we left the stairwell and entered the room of the chiefs of the Ten, which is very splendid, especially its ceiling paintings by Veronese and Ponchini. I was given no time to admire them, even had the light been good enough. We crossed to another door and were ushered through into the room of the inquisitors, the Three. Tintoretto painted that ceiling and the walls are richly paneled, but I doubt if many of the people who visit it are ever concerned about its art. On the dais sat a single man, seemingly doing nothing except waiting for us to arrive. He was elderly and portly, with a silver beard and a heavy, weathered face, looking as if he might have been a husky sailor in his youth, now run to seed. He wore the sumptuous scarlet robes and velvet tippet of a ducal counselor, plus an unfriendly scowl.

  I walked forward. Bruno stayed close to my side, but our escort must have stopped at the door, for I could not hear their footsteps. I came to a halt and waited to be announced. I wasn’t.

  I bowed. So did Bruno.

  “Your Excellency, I am—”

  “I know who you are,” he growled. “Do you know me?”

  “I believe I have the honor of addressing the ducal counselor from San Paolo, sier Marco Donà.”

  There are six ducal counselors, one from each ward of the city, each elected for an eight-month term. Their job is to restrain the doge, who can do nothing without the backing of at least four of them. Like the doge, they are automatically members of the Council of Ten. I did not know whose side Donà was on, because I did not know why sides were even necessary.

  “I am also a state inquisitor.”

  Which is exactly what I had been afraid of.

  The inquisitors are the Three—I did warn you this was complicated. The Three are not the three chiefs of the Ten, but a subcommittee of the Ten, consisting always of two ordinary members and one ducal counselor. The Ten may delegate any or all of their powers to the Three.

  At a loss for words, I bowed again. So did Bruno, who would know only that the man in the fancy robe must be important if Alfeo was being so respectful.

  “Who’s he?” Donà demanded.

  “He’s a mute, harmless unless he’s attacked.”

  “What’s he for?”

  “Armed men tried to kill me yesterday, Excellency.”

  “He can’t help you here. Send him away.”

  I had arranged three signals with Giorgio: I—in trouble—go to—home, meant bad. Go to—home—come—later, was hopeful. Everything—is well—wait, was obviously inappropriate.

  To Bruno I made the signs, Tell—Giorgio—go to—home. Bruno frowned and eyed the counselor. His deafness limits him, but he is far from witless and sometimes he seems to sense things by means that we more fortunate mortals cannot know. He did not want to leave me. I repeated my orders.

  He signed, You—go to—Giorgio.

  Stamp, point, wiggle two fingers, wave arm like an oar: No!—you—go to—Giorgio.

  Point to chest, point to floor. I—stay.

  Again I stamped my foot: No!

  This time he nodded, to my great relief. Still obviously reluctant, he turned and headed for the door. I turned my attention back to Donà.

  “State your business.”

  “My master sent me with a message for the illustrious Raffaino Sciara.”

  “Give me the message. If it is appropriate for him to receive it, I will see that he does.”

  I was now in considerably worse trouble than I had been two days before. To defy a direct order from a state inquisitor would be insanity beyond the call of duty, and the Maestro would certainly not expect me to try.

  “Your Excellency, my master, the learned Doctor Nostradamus, has evidence that Procurator Orseolo was murdered. He knows the name of the murderer. He instructed me to ask the secretary to arrange a gathering at the house of the learned Ottone Imer, at which my master will demonstrate how poison was administered to the procurator.”

  “And whom will your master denounce?”

  This was the problem. “I do not know, Your Excellency. He would not tell me.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  Icy water trickled down my ribs. “I swear it is the truth, Excellency.”

  “Your master expects us to give him a free hand to slander anyone he fancies?” The old man made a gesture of impatience. “I will ask you once more. If you do not answer my question willingly, you will answer it unwillingly and at great personal cost. Who is your master accusing?”

  “He would not tell me. Believe me, Your Excellency, I did ask him. I begged him to tell me. He would say only that he has very good reasons.”

  “Take him away and teach him better manners.”

  I turned. The guards who had brought me had been replaced by three very solid men in dark workmen’s clothing, and with them stood my companion of the previous day, Vizio Filiberto Vasco, our juvenile Caesar in his fancy red cloak.

  Without any open sneering or gloating, he gestured for me to accompany him. He led the way, carrying a lantern, and I followed. More heavy footsteps and lanterns came behind.

  When we reached the stairs, I said, “Wait! Where are we going?”

  “You know very well where we’re going, Alfeo.”

  “But he can’t do this, can he?” I could hear my voice growing shriller by the word. “Doesn’t he need a vote of the Ten, or at least another inquisitor’s approval?” There was an unreal quality about this experience. That I might be locked up until the Maestro came to apologize and explain had always been a risk, but we had never dreamed of extempore torture.

  The vizio s
miled mirthlessly. “All he needs is men to obey him, Alfeo. Do you want a sword point in your back or not?”

  I did not. The stairs seemed shorter than I expected, but they could not have been long enough for me. The torture chamber is surprisingly large, but then it plays an important role in government. I looked around in despair.

  Vasco was watching me. “Give him the tour, Carlo.”

  One of the jailers said, “If messer would come this way…” I was appalled at how huge he was—he could not possibly have been as big as Bruno, but I was feeling unusually small. He conducted me around the room, courteously explaining the machinery for breaking, twisting, burning, choking, wrenching, dislocating, crushing. In truth, the entire collection seemed quite insignificant, just a bag of tools spread out on the floor; all that really mattered was the rope dangling in the center.

  When the circuit was completed, I was back at the vizio. I knew he must see my shaking hands and hear my teeth clattering. No doubt the tormentors could tell exactly how long I would resist before I broke. And when I did I would not be able to tell them what they had been told to find out. I had to speak or go mad, even knowing that this was just evidence of my terror.

  “You enjoy this part of your job?”

  “No, I hate it,” Vasco said seriously. “I would enjoy watching you take forty or fifty strokes of the lash, Alfeo, but even you don’t deserve this. Fortunately I do not have to stay and watch what happens. As soon as you have been secured, I am free to go. Do you want to do it the easy way or the painful way? The easy way is much better.”

  Coward that I was, I would do anything to postpone the start of pain. I took off my hat and handed it to the monster looming over me. Then cloak, doublet, shirt, until I was bare to the waist. He took them as politely as a valet, then turned and threw them down in a corner beside a bucket.

  “You can keep your britches on,” Vasco said. “For now.” He pointed to the bucket. “You need to use that?”

  To my shame, I did need to use that, and all four of them watched while I did so. Humble as a mouse, I crept back to the rope, where they waited for me.

  “If messer will pardon…” The big torturer pulled my arms behind me and knotted the rope around my wrists and forearms, hauling my elbows together. The torture known as the cord, or strappado, is more feared than the rack. A man who denies his crime on the cord cannot be hanged for it afterwards. Since he will no longer have any use of his arms, that is a doubtful blessing, and one that cannot be earned very often.

  A moment’s respite, then a pulley creaked and the rope began to tighten, raising my arms and bending my torso forward. My elbows could not bend at all at that angle, and my shoulders very little. When my head was level with my crotch and I stood on tiptoe, a voice said, “Tie it there.”

  Vasco bent close to my ear. “Resist as long as you can,” he whispered. “If you give up too easily they won’t believe you, and then it’s terrible.”

  He told Carlo to carry on, and left, taking his lantern. I was shaking harder than ever, teeth chattering uncontrollably. Cold was a part of that, but I was scared out of my wits and do not deny it. One of the torturers came close and clasped my shoulder with a callused hand.

  “Strong one,” he remarked to the others. “We’ll need weights.” He gave me a playful slap on the buttocks. “Don’t go away. We’ll be back.”

  They left and the door boomed shut.

  19

  I thought I was alone, but could not be certain. All I could hear was the crackle of the fire, a sound I had always considered cheerful until then. All I could see was the bucket and my tormented feet. The room bore an indefinable stench, no doubt stemming from centuries of every bodily secretion imaginable. The pain in my toes was already becoming unbearable, but any attempt to ease them threw more strain on my shoulders. When the real torment began, of course, they would raise me right off the floor, with or without weights on my feet, and with or without bouncing, whatever they chose.

  The doge said, “You seem to be in trouble again, lad.”

  I started, and gasped aloud at the pain even that twitch caused me. With an effort, I made my mouth work more or less normally. “That’s a very good imitation.”

  “I really think you should leave before those fine sinners come back. Why don’t you call on little Putrid for help?”

  The voice was right beside me, but I could not see the speaker’s feet. I was in the power of a fiend from hell and yet I felt a tingle of hope. This whole experience had been just too bad to be true. Even the Three must have some procedures to follow and one state inquisitor, acting alone, sending a witness straight to torture did not seem plausible. The king of France can lock up a man in the Bastille on a whim, a French count can have a peasant flogged or hanged, but in Venice a nobleman who strikes a servant will be charged and punished. The Republic has never tolerated despots.

  “I don’t believe a word you say. Go away.”

  A cold and scaly finger scratched all the way down my bare back, making all my flesh cringe.

  The demon sighed. “We shall see. How’s this voice?”

  “Senator Tirali.”

  “Very good! A charming man. We have great hopes for him. Why aren’t you going to accept his offer?”

  “How do you know I’m not?”

  “You are. You think you’re not, but I am going to talk you into it. Violetta would love to go to Rome with you, you know.”

  I had thought of that, Rome with Violetta…

  Violetta’s voice said, “You can’t expect a harlot to stay faithful, darling, but you don’t mind sharing me and you know you can’t ever marry me. You’d be out of the Golden Book in a flash if you did that. We women are so fickle, Alfeo! We tire of our boy toys. Another month or two, if you’re lucky, and then I will send you away and find another.”

  Back to the silky tones of Senator Tirali: “You need money, lots of money, so you can be her patron and pay her. You have that manuscript. It’s quite genuine, the only surviving copy of Meleager by Euripides. Selling it here will be very dangerous. You’ll have problems with provenance, Alfeo. Too many people know about it. But in Rome? Or even better, stop in Florence on your way there. Grand Duke Ferdinand is crazy about that sort of trash. You’ll be a rich man before you even get to Rome. That way you can be Violetta’s patron, have her almost all to yourself. And the opportunities! A trusted confidant of the Venetian ambassador? Millions, you can make there.”

  “I have thought of all of that,” I said. “Go away. I have to say my prayers.”

  The demon laughed. He changed to the Maestro’s scratchy old voice. “And there’s me. You know where I keep my gold, Alfeo, my lovely box of ducats. Nobody else even knows it exists, so no one will look for it. You know what all my books are worth, too, every one of them. And I’ve left them all to you in my will.”

  I started to say a paternoster and was stopped by a monstrous punch on the kidney. I won’t bother to describe the results—you can guess. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I was left gagging and sobbing…Oh, Lord! If one punch made me weep like this, what would an hour on the cord do?

  “Don’t interrupt me when I am tempting,” the demon said in Inquisitor Donà’s voice. “You need money, Alfeo. You need money to keep Violetta willing. You need money to restore your family name. Yes, it would be a shame to betray the Maestro when he’s taught you so much, but he can’t last much longer now, can he? You know how to use all those poisons, but a pillow will be better. When he goes to bed tonight. You’re a strong lad and he’s so frail. He won’t have time to realize what’s happening. Two minutes’ work and the world will be yours, Alfeo! Wealth, women, power.”

  “And I won’t have to come to the palace in the morning.”

  The demon chuckled. “Of course not! You’re clever, Alfeo. That’s what we like about you. You’ll do great things for us—as long as you don’t come here to the palace in the morning. If you do, we will be waiting for you, and this time it will be
real. We will enjoy that, but you won’t.”

  Somebody snapped his fingers.

  I gasped at the blaze of light and almost fell off the chair.

  My mouth was a desert. Squinting through my eyelashes, I searched for the water glass. It was empty. The fire had burned to embers. The light was a single candle, reduced to a stub, its flame reflected in the crystal globe.

  “How long was I gone?” I mumbled.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the Maestro said. “An hour? Probably nearer two. It was very interesting.” He peered at me. “Are you all right?”

  “Could be worse,” I said. “Need a drink.”

  I staggered slightly as I rose. I went to the fireplace to find a lamp, lit it, and walked unsteadily to the door. My own room was closer than the kitchen, and I had water there. It soaked into my tissues like an elixir of life; it calmed my heartbeat; it was triple-distilled dew. I knelt to unlock the chest, but my hands were still shaking enough to make me fumble, and I needed three attempts to work the hidden catch and open the secret compartment in the lid. I gasped aloud relief when I saw that the manuscript was still there. Had it not been, I might have jumped out the window.

  Back in the atelier, I went straight to the fireplace and lit more lamps to make the room bright. Every shadow held a lurking demon. I needed sunlight, lots and lots of noon sun. Tomorrow was going to be foggy. I sat cross-legged on the hearth rug, hunched close to the warmth.

  Thump, thump—The Maestro came stumping across and settled into his favorite chair with a sigh of contentment. “You hadn’t told me about Circospetto.”