“Shut up,” said Leon.
“I won’t enter her chambers for you and take it. No one will. I don’t care what you threaten.”
The majordomo’s sudden bravado was born of stark fear, nothing more. Leon released him with a shove that knocked him back against the wine racks.
“You won’t have to. Don’t fear,” he muttered. “I have other plans for you.”
“Please let me go, signore,” babbled the majordomo, falling to his knees again. “I have my work. I will say nothing. I will not—”
“No, you will not,” Leon said harshly. He spread out his fingers and pushed with his mind.
The majordomo’s face went slack again. He knelt there with his mouth open, his hands still folded in supplication.
It was an attractive picture. Leon admired it a moment and then brought himself back to business. He would rather have Messer Tibo kneeling at his feet instead of this idiot.
“I want fine clothes brought to me at once,” Leon commanded. “The finery of a nobleman.”
The majordomo’s vacant expression did not change. “Yes, signore,” he said tonelessly.
“I want access to the contessa’s chambers. You will see that her personal maidservants are distracted. I want the lady’s rooms to be empty.”
“Yes, signore.”
“Now,” Leon said, bending over him, “you will forget this conversation. You will forget who asked you these questions. You will remember only your instructions. Is that clear?”
“Yes, signore.”
“Good,” Leon said. He snapped his fingers, and the man blinked. “Go.”
Without another glance at him the majordomo scrambled to his feet and pattered away.
Leon smiled to himself and pulled out a dusty bottle of wine. Drawing the cork, he tipped back his head and drank deep. The wine was warm and wet. A ghostly hint of flavor crossed his palate. If he closed his eyes and concentrated he could imagine how it should really taste—rich and robust, fruity and incredibly pleasing.
Back when he’d first been created, he could not taste anything unless it passed through Noel’s mouth. Since then their symbiotic link had diminished steadily. Sometimes Leon could taste everything. Then it would all vanish and he would be left hollow and bereft of the sensations permitted other people. He might love, taste, smell, enjoy, but he never knew when it would happen or when it would end.
Soon, however, Noel would be condemned for attacking Lady Francesca. His execution in a matter of hours would free Leon forever.
In the meantime, Leon had other matters to occupy him.
Approaching footsteps made him glance up warily, but it was only a servant coming with an armful of clothing. He did not even see Leon skulking in the shadows. He dropped the clothing onto a barrel and hurried off, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
Leon stepped into the torchlight and picked up the elegant velvets and silks. The shirt and underclothes were of the finest Egyptian linen. The soft shoes were fashioned from supple calf leather, dyed to match the long doublet and hose. When he was dressed, he placed the velvet cap with its sweeping feather on his head and smirked to himself. That was better. He should have requested some jewels, but he could supply himself from the contessa’s collection later on.
Whistling silently to himself, he took the servant stairs up from the cellars to the upper stories, crossed over the courtyard by means of an open passageway where laughing couples kissed in the moonlight. No one took any notice of him as he mingled with the guests. Buffoons in masks were distributing gifts to the ladies and pies were being carried in. Live birds erupted from the pies and with shrieks of laughter the guests ran about, trying to catch them. Madrigals and dancing continued in the ballroom though the hour grew late. The contessa held court at one end of the room, sitting in a tall chair of ornately carved walnut. Like most Venetian women, she followed the style of wearing her hair curled and dyed blond. Her white bosom was covered with a magnificent emerald necklace, and her velvet gown was stiff from silver embroidery and jewels sewn to the fabric. She was talking animatedly to a middle-aged man with a beard, while a much younger man lounged at her feet, sulkily eating grapes and reading a book of poetry.
The contessa was definitely occupied for a while. As for Messer Tibo, Leon saw him hovering over the refreshments, savoring some delicacy with frowning intensity.
Leon left the ballroom with a smirk.
He found the contessa’s sumptuous private chambers empty as requested. The door was locked, but Leon picked it easily. He walked in and glanced around. The suite consisted of a council room, sitting room, dressing room with bath, and bedroom. The council room was rather austere. Equipped with a massive desk and several chairs, it also had a locked cabinet that probably held her deeds and other business papers. Beyond it, the walls of the sitting room were hung with gold damask. Comfortable cushions were stacked beneath an expanse of windows. The contessa’s ladies probably congregated here during the day with their sewing and other idle amusements. He saw a lute lying against a chair. The contessa’s lap dog was curled up on a hassock. It awakened with a start and yapped at him.
Leon opened a coffer of chocolates and fed it some. The little spaniel stopped barking immediately and wagged its tail.
“Stupid thing,” Leon muttered.
The dog sat up on its haunches and begged for more. Leon walked away from it, and it jumped down to trot after him, nudging his ankles and panting happily.
He didn’t want the little brute near him, but it wasn’t part of his plan to hurt the dog now. That would undoubtedly upset the contessa. Leon did not understand how people could dote on animals, but he had no affection for people either.
In the end it was the dog who showed him the strongbox by jumping on top of it and wagging its tail. The chest was large and heavy, partially concealed by a square of tapestry flung across it. It stood near the contessa’s massive, canopied bed, and the small olive-wood casket was on top of it as the majordomo had said.
Pushing past the dog, which yipped and pawed at his arm for attention, Leon picked up the little casket and opened it.
A plain iron key lay inside. With it was a folded piece of parchment.
Leon took both. Slipping the key into his pocket, he unfolded the paper and saw that it was the contessa’s horoscope written out with many mysterious and arcane symbols. With a snort Leon replaced the paper.
Putting the casket back where it belonged, he leaned over the dog, which jumped up and licked his chin. Its tongue was warm and wet. Leon recoiled instinctively, yet the dog’s brown eyes were innocent and friendly, and it wiggled all over with happiness.
Frowning a little, Leon hesitated, then touched the dog’s head with his lingers, stroking its warm, silky fur. The dog nudged closer against Leon’s palm, wagging its tail with more fervor than ever.
This made no sense. Why should the animal react with such pleasure? It must be hoping for more chocolates.
Leon stopped petting it and hurried out of the room. To his relief the dog made no attempt to follow, but remained by its mistress’s bed. Leon glanced back once, and the dog crouched down, its ears flattened in disappointment.
“Ridiculous,” muttered Leon to himself and left the contessa’s chambers.
He was just in time, for the maidservants were returning. He could hear them scolding among themselves in shrill voices, their words staccato notes above the distant swell of music from the ballroom below.
Leon concealed himself in an alcove and watched as they hastened past him.
Then he made his way to the tower stairs.
Without warning the passageway seemed to narrow and bend around him. Leon stopped, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. Everything looked normal. He stepped forward, and the walls bulged and rippled. Again he stopped, feeling slightly dizzy.
It was a simple hallucinatory trick, no doubt used to discourage intruders and curious servants, but it wasn’t going to work on him.
S
haking his head to clear it, Leon ignored the curving walls and dipping floor and strode forward. He staggered a few times, almost losing his balance, but he did not slacken pace. Ahead, the staircase slid back and forth a few times, then the steps seemed to reverse direction. It was like looking at an Escher print—one of Noel’s personal favorites among twentieth-century art. Leon sneered to himself and dismissed the thought. He wasn’t interested in art. He most certainly was not interested in what his twin liked or preferred.
Tiring of the optical illusions, Leon pulled his thoughts into deep concentration and cloaked himself within the power of his own mind. The walls, floor, and stairs returned to normal. Only the torchlight appeared dimmer, but since Leon liked the dark it didn’t matter.
A dwarf in mufti sat on a stool near the foot of the staircase. He dozed, soft snores rumbling in his throat. A candle and an empty cup lay at his feet. He had enormous hands with misshapen knuckles. His nose had been broken many times until it was flat and shapeless. His nostrils seemed to be mere holes. His mouth was open, and what few teeth he possessed were black and broken. He also smelled.
The smell was not from lack of bathing, which Leon didn’t mind, but of something else unidentifiable and far more disturbing.
A wraith of memory trailed through Leon’s brain. The smell of dried blood. The smell of roasted feathers. The smell of bitter herbs mixed with…
He lost the memory and shrugged. Whatever it was, he didn’t intend to break his concentration further in pursuit of it. Drawing himself very tight he slipped past the sleeping dwarf like a shadow. Not a thought escaped Leon, not a breath, not a sound, yet still the dwarf jerked and mumbled in his sleep.
He lifted his head away from where it had been propped against the wall and blinked muzzily at the shadows. He smacked his lips a few times as though his mouth were dry. Leon froze upon the steps, yet the dwarf could not see him while he kept himself cloaked. Actually the dwarf’s eyes did register Leon, but the information never reached the dwarf’s brain. Leon was particularly skilled at concealing himself in this way.
As soon as the dwarf dozed off again, Leon turned around and continued up the stairs.
No torchlight reached to the top, which lay shrouded in darkness. Leon’s pupils opened wide to catch a glimmer of illumination, but only a thin bar of light from beneath a door provided any.
Holding his breath, Leon pressed himself against the cold satiny surface of the wood and listened with both mind and ears.
His ears told him someone was inside, moving about quietly but with purpose. His mind told him it was the other servant, an intelligent, quick-witted man all tangled inside with old hatreds and disappointments, a life ruined and renewed, a desperate sense of loyalty for Messer Tibo whom he both feared and loved.
There was no cloaking himself with this man. Leon gnawed on several plans of action. None of them appealed to him, but having come this far he did not intend to throw away the opportunity to snoop. He decided to be bold.
Fitting the key into the heavy iron lock, Leon twisted it and pushed open the door.
Inside, the candlelight was dazzling. Leon walked in and saw a bald man garbed in a long robe stained with dust and chemicals. Old and terrible scars crisscrossed his head. Both ears had been cut off long ago and he had but one eye. The servant turned with a grunt of astonishment. His eye narrowed. He reached for a dagger lying on a table, but Leon struck his mind with a sharp punch. The servant crumpled soundlessly to the floor.
Closing the door and relocking it, Leon set to work quickly. He felt that time and luck were running out.
Messer Tibo was both well equipped and a packrat. The room was spacious in size, but it was so crowded with tables, chests, cabinets, and paraphernalia it seemed cramped and claustrophobic. Skulls lay scattered everywhere, atop books and tables, tossed carelessly in the corners, even supporting candles. A brass telescope stood by the window, pointed at the stars. Next to it was a tall table covered with sheets of zodiacal information and mysterious scribbling. A rat crouched there, cleaning its whiskers.
A caldron bubbled over the fire on the hearth. Some noxious odor emanated from it. Cabinets crammed with dirty jars of herbs, lizard skins, human teeth, and possibly powdered blood no doubt supplied the concoction Messer Tibo was brewing.
Leon turned away in boredom. All of this was just mumbo jumbo. Thus far he had found nothing that explained Messer Tibo’s powers, but he wasn’t willing to dismiss what had happened in the loggia or the passageway.
At the far end of the room he found a locked door hidden behind a rat-chewed tapestry. The iron key opened it, and Leon stepped through.
Immediately he knew he had found something important. The air was frigid, a difference of perhaps twenty or thirty degrees from the temperature in the other chamber. Candles on tall iron supports burned at the far end of this narrow, windowless room, suggesting a shrine. Shivering, Leon walked forward cautiously.
The atmosphere was oppressive. He could feel the hair standing up on the back of his neck. He did not like it in here and had the strong desire to run.
Leon dismissed his uneasiness, however, as just another protective illusion. He was determined to stay until he discovered Messer Tibo’s secrets.
The room held a long table but no chairs or other furnishings. On the table lay a neat stack of papers covered with writing and symbols. Picking one up, Leon recognized various equations and the ancient symbols for some of the elements such as lead and gold.
His interest perked up at once. Here must be Messer Tibo’s latest findings in the doomed effort to make gold from lead. Like the search for perpetual motion, alchemy had been one of those queer dead-end roads of early science. Everyone had known it was impossible, yet the dream persisted like the myth of the Holy Grail, as tantalizing as it was out of reach.
Putting down the papers, Leon walked to the shrine. A prie-dieu had been converted to another purpose. Swathed in crimson cloth, it supported a fire-blackened crucible.
The crucible contained a small pile of ashes. Leon started to turn away, then on impulse stuck his fingertip in the ashes.
Concealed within them were tiny pebbles. He blew gently at the ashes and saw the unmistakable glint of gold. Excitement stabbed him. He stared a moment, then picked up one of the tiny nuggets and held it to the light.
“Impossible,” he whispered aloud.
Yet it looked real. It had the correct weight. He turned it over and over in his fingers, searching for a flaw. His mind flooded with questions, and not for the first time did he wish he had possession of Noel’s LOC. No one had ever really solved the puzzle of alchemy, had they? No one had ever really figured it out. It was a physical impossibility, yet…
Still skeptical, Leon hesitated, then put the nugget between his teeth and bit down on it.
Real gold was soft, as anyone knew. It should be easy to leave an impression of his tooth in it.
But this nugget was hard. It resisted his bite, then suddenly shattered. Leon’s mouth was filled with an explosion of tiny shards and the taste of something unspeakably foul.
He choked and spat, bending over and spitting again and again. But he could not clear his tongue of the sticky, gummy substance no matter how much he coughed and spat.
Leon wiped his tongue on his sleeve, shuddering and gasping. Tears streamed from his eyes and he felt nauseated.
Yet he did not vomit. White and drained, he leaned against the table and tried to catch his breath.
Some of the horrible taste finally faded. He wondered why his unreliable taste buds worked now, and he wished with all his heart that he had brought the bottle of Cyprian wine with him. It might have helped to wash out his mouth.
Shuddering again, Leon wiped his face and promised himself he would keep suspicious substances out of his mouth. It had been like biting into a corpse. A metallic sweet stickiness still lingered on his tongue. As long as he lived he did not ever think he would forget its horridness.
He pee
red at the tiny blob of goo on the floor. A strong stench rose from it. Leon choked and stepped back.
Glancing at the crucible, Leon saw that the gold nuggets had vanished, replaced instead by human teeth. They were yellowed with age, their enamel discolored and cracked. Some were black with rot.
Leon felt his gorge rising again. He swallowed and backed away. There’d been enough snooping. He wanted only to get out of here.
As he turned toward the door, the temperature in the room dropped several more degrees and an icy breeze raked through his hair, blasted his face, billowed through his clothing.
Blinded and buffeted by it, Leon threw up his hands and staggered toward the door. He realized he had been foolish to force his way in here. He should have waited, been more patient, taken more care.
A whistling noise sang through the roar of wind. Something slashed across Leon’s neck and shoulder with stinging force. He staggered back, caught off balance by the attack. The invisible whip slashed at him again and again. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Leon turned this way and that, seeking an escape route, but the whip was relentless and quick. It drove him one way, then another.
Staggering, his cuts on fire, blood dripping into one eye, Leon managed to fling out his hand and catch the whip. As soon as he did, the wind vanished and all was strangely, abnormally still.
Astonished, Leon turned slowly around, but he remained the only person in the room. The candles still burned steadily on their tall stands, although the brutal wind should have blown them out. The papers remained stacked neatly on the table, although they should have been scattered everywhere. The spittle, however, was gone from the rug. The teeth had vanished from the crucible, and it was scoured clean.
As for the whip, Leon gazed down at his clenched right hand. He could feel the leather thong against his palm, yet when he uncurled his fingers he held nothing at all save a single long strand of hair. Leon stared at it, then in a burst of panic he flung it away.
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