The Alchemist's Apprentice

by Dave Duncan

  “Sciara? What about him?” I was feeding the embers, trying to coax them into a blaze.

  “That the doge told you to report to him.”

  “I would have told you when you were ready to report.”

  “Well, I was going to write to the Ten, but obviously there’s political skullduggery afoot, so we’d better do what His Serenity wants.”

  “I am sure there is but I would much rather write a letter.” Very much rather.

  “No.” He put his fingertips together and began to lecture. “You must seek out Raffaino Sciara first thing in the morning and tell him I need to see all the suspects back at the Imer residence in the evening. We can reenact the murder and I shall show who did it and how.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me who, are you?” I had the flames leaping joyfully now.

  “No,” the Maestro said firmly. “It has to be done my way. Believe me, I do have good reasons. If I tell you in advance, then they may get the name out of you tomorrow.”

  “That’s not impossible.” I shivered at the memory, the smell of the torture chamber, the harsh bite of the rope on my wrists. “How reliable is clairvoyance?”

  “Huh?” The Maestro sat up so he could peer at me suspiciously. “Why?”

  “I saw a vision.”

  “You did? Excellent, excellent! Clairvoyance is a sign of maturity. It means you are starting to get your mind off that woman once in a while. Not for very long at a time, perhaps, but…” He paused, frowning. “But I put you into the trance, and I ordered you to view the past, not the future. So whatever you saw was not clairvoyance. What did you see?”

  “The ultimate quintessence of unmitigated disaster. Answer my question, please. Is what I foresaw inevitable, or can it be prevented?”

  “Of course it can be prevented! What use would clairvoyance be if the future was inevitable? Although,” he said cautiously, “it would be more correct to say that the foreseen can sometimes only be modified, not negated. The sagacious Zosimos of Panoplis wrote of a man who was told the ordained hour of his death and therefore fled to Memphis, only to be killed there by a falling chimney pot at the time and in the place predestined. The main thrust of a prophecy can by diverted sufficiently, provided you can find the fulcrum, the single crucial item that you must change to divert the turn of events, because history is a mighty stream washing all before it and it is only when you can find the place where inserting a pebble…What are you doing, Alfeo?”

  “Diverting the mighty stream,” I said, feeding more paper into the hearth. “I made a terrible mistake.”

  My master uttered a strangled cry and groped for his staff. “What are you burning?”

  “The last surviving copy of Meleager by Euripides.”

  He whimpered. “No, no! It’s priceless.”

  “It isn’t, you know. There’s one price I won’t pay for it.” I threw the rest of it in as a single wad and sat back to watch the leaves blacken and curl. I crossed my legs and balanced my forearms on my knees. I felt better already.

  “How did you get it?” he muttered, watching the fire, not me.

  “It was a present from a demon. You obviously didn’t ask me for Karagounis’s last words. He said he could help me! But he left the manuscript on his desk and a halfwit young idiot decided that he could make better use of…” I explained.

  “No!” Firelight made the Maestro’s tears shine like diamonds as he watched the paper burn. “You’re no thief! That was a cleverly set trap, Alfeo. Karagounis was dispensable. Even if the Ten did not already know about him, you had exposed him. So his demon used his death as a powerful charge of evil to break down your normal defenses, like setting off a mine under a castle wall. Your fiend had betrayed you to the chaush’s demon, and it managed to open a portal to you, so you were vulnerable. You were bewitched!”

  That thought helped. “But if I’d listened to what he said—”

  “What he said was meaningless, just to distract you from the trap. Unwittingly, you swallowed the bait the demon had set out for you. Whatever you saw in the crystal was not clairvoyance, it was a sending, a hallucination from hell. What did you see?”

  “The hook. Have I broken the line, though?” I told him briefly about my vision of the torture chamber and the temptation of the Tirali offer. I did not include the demon’s suggestion that I murder the Maestro for his hoard of ducats. They say you can only be tempted by your own thoughts and I had been aware of that possibility for years. We all know of dark places in our souls that we stay away from, and the Maestro must be aware of that one in mine.

  He thought for a moment and then nodded, gazing wistfully at the charred mess on the burning logs. “You have repented and done penance. You spat out the bait. You should be safe now.”

  Tomorrow I would know for certain. “Tell me what you want me to do in the morning.”

  20

  The fog seemed thicker than I remembered, but its salty smell and the slap of ripples were frighteningly familiar. Everything was happening as before—Giorgio rowed me to the Molo and the Marangona bell boomed out, just as it had in the vision. I climbed out onto the Piazzetta, aided by the same unexpected heave from Bruno, which I had forgotten. He scrambled up beside me.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can,” I said.

  “I can wait,” Giorgio said. “It’s what I do best.”

  I resisted an urge to make a joke about babies. “Keep an ear open for gossip about the murder, will you?”

  With Bruno at my side, I walked along the loggia. The outer world was unfolding as before, only my thoughts were different. Now I knew I would never stand here waiting to be beckoned into the broglia and introduced by an influential patron. I had already written to Tirali, turning down his offer of Rome on the grounds that I owed loyalty to the Maestro; Corrado had promised faithfully to deliver the note and Christoforo to see that he did.

  If I had described my vision in greater detail, the Maestro would certainly have given me very different instructions. So why hadn’t I? Why was I here? I had broken my curse by burning the book, but why not play safe and change the future completely by having someone else deliver a letter to Circospetto? Why risk the outcome being almost what I had foreseen? I did not know the answer to that. A stubborn determination to prove my courage, perhaps, or a refusal to be intimidated by evil. Let fear deter you and the evil has won, the Maestro says.

  I hesitated for a moment at the Porta della Carta, so that Bruno went another step and turned to look for me, but then I forced my feet to move again and we entered the tunnel. The same guard shot the same startled look at Bruno, slammed the butt of his pike down on the same flagstone, and asked the same question.

  I gave him the same answer. Again we were ordered to wait. Time passed even more slowly than before, because I had to fight a desperate yearning to turn around and flee away into the fog. The messenger returned eventually and again we crossed the courtyard. But now the pattern was broken, for only one man went with us, and not in quite the same direction. The moment I realized he was leading us to the censors’ staircase, I took large gulps of air and told my heart to calm down, for this was the way that honored guests were taken to the halls of justice.

  We had to climb just as far, but the stairs were wide and high, and thus much easier, especially for Bruno. At the top we were shown into an antechamber that leads to both the hall of the Ten and the smaller room for the chiefs of the Ten. It was presently occupied by two fanti guards, and the cadaverous Raffaino Sciara, Circospetto, in his blue robe. Our guide departed the way we had come. The future was unfolding as it should.

  “Well, sier Alfeo?” The secretary’s eyes were as sepulchral as always. “You have had a busy couple of days.” Sciara smiled contemptuously, but probably a face so skull-like can smile no other way.

  I bowed and admitted that I had. Bruno was staring at the murals.

  “And why are you demanding to see me, sier Alfeo? At this ungodly hour in the morning?”

&n
bsp; “The…A mutual friend suggested I should report my master’s conclusions to you, lustrissimo.”

  Circospetto frowned. There were witnesses present. “The man you saw that morning?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sure you misheard him.”

  “I must have done, lustrissimo. I am sorry.”

  “Sensitive reports are made to the chiefs of the Ten. As it happens, your timing is excellent. They were just discussing the attack made on you yesterday. They may have some questions to put to you.” He pointed at Bruno, who was gaping at the Tintoretto paintings on the ceiling. “Will he remain here?”

  “I could insist, lustrissimo, but he will do no harm if he comes. He cannot hear.”

  Sciara nodded and ushered me through the corner door to the room of the chiefs of the Ten, Bruno hurrying at our heels. Three men sat behind the big table on the podium; all were elderly and wore the black robes of nobility with the extra-large sleeves denoting membership in the Council of Ten. Red tippets over their left shoulders showed that they were indeed the three chiefs. They had their heads together, conferring. The papers waiting their attention were still neatly stacked and the candles in the golden candlesticks were long and unlit, suggesting that they had barely started their morning’s work.

  At a side table sat an equally venerable spectator in the robes and biretta of a state prosecutor, and beside him sat Missier Grande Gasparo Quazza in his blue and red, solid as a marble staircase. He looked at me with no sign of recognition whatsoever, which is his way.

  If the doge had wanted to keep the Ten out of the Orseolo affair, then he had failed, but at least this time I was not facing Inquisitor Marco Donà. I gestured Bruno to a corner and bowed low while Sciara gave my name. He went back to his seat beside the prosecutor and dipped a quill in his inkwell.

  The right-hand chief had a long white beard; the one on the left was portly. The middle one must be this week’s chairman and him I knew to be one of the Maestro’s patients, Bartolemeo Morosini. The Maestro had not told him that his heart was going to give out very shortly, but a glimpse of his inflamed, choleric face in any mirror would offer a strong hint.

  In the overly loud tones of the hard of hearing, he proclaimed, “You are citizen Alfeo Zeno, clerk to Doctor Nostradamus?”

  “I am Alfeo Zeno, Your Excellency. I do have the honor of being listed in the Golden Book.”

  All three old men scowled at me for not being dressed as a nobile homo. I would collect no more tips from Morosini when he called on his doctor in future.

  “NH Alfeo Zeno, then, but a clerk. You testify before this tribunal on pain of perjury. You were attacked by a gang of bravos yesterday?”

  “I was.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “No, Your Excellency.”

  “Or why they picked on you?”

  I saw the portly chief wince at the directness of Morosini’s question. It left me hanging over a very long drop. To mumble hints of clairvoyance to Missier Grande in private was bad enough. To testify about demons on oath in state records would be suicidal.

  I said, “I can only assume that it was to prevent my exposing the foreigner Alexius Karagounis as an agent of the sultan, messere.”

  “The man who jumped out the window when you went to see him later in the company of the vizio?”

  “That man, messere.”

  “And how did you know that—”

  Because I was at floor level and the chiefs were up on a dais, I saw Portly’s shoe slam against the chairman’s ankle. He started and glared at his companion.

  Portly said, “Did we not decide to close the file on the foreigner Alexius Karagounis, subsequent upon his suicide?”

  The three chiefs choose what shall or shall not be discussed by the whole Council of Ten. If the doge wanted to keep his involvement off the table, his success or failure would be decided here.

  Long Beard harrumphed. “We are questioning the witness Zeno about the assault on him earlier in the day. That case is not closed, but we have only his word—his admitted speculation—that there is any connection. On your oath, witness, do you know for a fact that there is a connection?”

  “No, messer, er messere.”

  “Well, then,” said Portly. “And the man was not summoned as a witness, he came here to volunteer some information. Why don’t we hear what he wants to tell us?”

  Morosini shrugged and gestured to Sciara to lay down his pen. “We give you three minutes, sier Alfeo.”

  Relieved, but aware that my reprieve might be only temporary, I said, “Doctor Nostradamus instructed me to inform Your Excellencies that the late Procurator Orseolo died as a result of poison administered to him the previous evening at the house of Citizen Imer. My master—”

  All three chiefs tried to speak at once.

  Portly had the loudest outrage: “Administered by whom?”

  “He dare not say yet, messere. I swear,” I continued quickly, “that he has not confided even to me the name of the person he suspects.” The torture chamber was still open for business, one floor up.

  “Why doesn’t the old fool write us a letter?” Morosini shouted. “That’s how these things are done.”

  “Because he cannot yet offer absolute proof, clarissimo. He is convinced, though, that if the persons who were present at the book viewing that night were to be reassembled in that same room—including himself, of course—then he would be able to reconstruct the murder, showing how it was done and who did it.”

  My suggestion was as welcome as a risotto of pig manure.

  “Bertucci died of old age,” Long Beard muttered. “We agreed we had no reason to believe anything else.”

  “Let him rest in peace,” Morosini agreed.

  Contradicting the chiefs of the Ten requires extreme tact or total insanity, and better both. I bowed. “Without questioning Your Excellencies’ wisdom or knowledge in any way, my master humbly submits that he has additional evidence that he can bring to Your Excellencies’ attention, but it will require the demonstration I described.”

  “He must tell us the name of the person he intends to accuse.”

  “He insists he has reasons for his secrecy, which will become obvious at the time.”

  I had reasons for the nest of eels squirming in my belly, and most of them were memories of that torture chamber.

  These men might or might not know that the doge had gate-crashed the book viewing, but they must know that one of the men present that evening had been the new ambassador-designate to the Holy See. To have Giovanni Tirali mixed up in a murder case at this time would be as embarrassing as involving the doge himself. The chiefs wanted the file closed. They wanted to bury it in the bowels of the state archives. They did not want a celebrated sage throwing wild and embarrassing accusations around.

  Morosini banged a fist on the table. “Nostradamus expects just us to attend his harlequinade or is he inviting the whole Council of Ten? How much will he charge for admission?”

  “He hopes only that Your Excellencies will permit the demonstration and send some trusted observer.”

  The three chiefs bent heads to confer. If their expressions were any guide, they were going to send Missier Grande to fetch the Maestro by fast boat and order me flogged for insolence to amuse them while they were waiting.

  “The old charlatan is hinting that he doesn’t trust us!” muttered Portly.

  Of course he was.

  “I have never heard such audacity,” grumbled Long Beard.

  Very softly, Raffaino Sciara cleared his throat.

  Portly had the best hearing. “Lustrissimo?”

  “I believe there have been precedents, Your Excellencies. A similar case…Missier Grande, do you recall the details?”

  Members of the Council of Ten are elected for one-year terms, although they become eligible for reelection after another year. Circospetto and Missier Grande know everything because they are appointed for life.

  “Maestro Nost
radamus has helped the Council on several occasions,” the police chief said. “I can recall a couple of times when he made dramatic demonstrations.”

  Sciara nodded. “That case of the dead gondolier on the roof? Bizarre!”

  “Incredible!”

  The chiefs pursed lips angrily. Long Beard said, “What case of what dead gondolier on what roof?”

  “The man had seemingly been beaten to death and his body left on a roof, which it was quite impossible for him to have reached without witchcraft.”

  “And Nostradamus explained it?”

  Sciara shrugged. “With a pendulum, Your Excellency—a long rope attached to the nearby bell tower. There had been a drunken bet. The sage has never been proved wrong yet, but of course the man is old.”

  Morosini scowled. No one likes to hear hints that his doctor is senile. “If anyone did poison old Bertucci,” he conceded, “then he ought to wear the silken collar.”

  The other two muttered agreement. I could see beads clicking on their mental abacuses—the Ten make their reports to the Grand Council, and a truly dramatic conviction would bring great credit to the current chiefs and boost their political prospects.

  “You said there were other precedents, lustrissimo?”

  Sciara smiled his death’s-head smile. “Nostradamus has made some startling demonstrations in the presence of state witnesses. I doubt if the learned doctor expects the entire Council of Ten to turn up.”

  The chiefs exchanged glances and near-imperceptible nods.

  “I see no reason,” Morosini proclaimed, “for us to forbid the sort of charade the Maestro is suggesting, as long as we make clear that it is a private function. How many people would have to be rounded up?” He directed his faded eyes and scarlet wattles at me.

  “About a dozen, Your Excellency. Five or six houses would have to be notified. One man and a boatman could deliver the warrants in a couple of hours.”

  “Why about a dozen?” asked Portly. “Can’t you count?”

  I glanced at Circospetto. Sciara had a sudden need to scratch his right ear, which in turn required him to shake his head, ever so slightly. I took that to mean that I was not to invite the doge.