Murder at Midnight

by Avi

  “Is that true, Fabrizio?” said a frowning Mangus. He dropped the coins into the leather purse attached to his belt. “Do you really think what I do is true sorcery?”

  “No doubt, Master.”

  Giuseppe snorted. “You see what a fool he is, Master!”

  “Fabrizio,” said Mangus, “your faith in me is based on ignorance.”

  Fabrizio, his cheeks burning, handed the old man’s slippers to Giuseppe. In return he received a pair of soft boots, which he slipped onto his master’s feet. After a moment he looked up. “With permission, Master,” he whispered, “I should like to be a magician, too.”

  “Now that,” said Mangus, “would take real magic.”

  Fabrizio hung his head to hide his stinging tears.

  Mangus pulled his feet from the boy’s grasp. “Time for home. The king’s curfew applies to us, too. I doubt the night watch will look kindly on an elderly charlatan and his cheap tricks.”

  He started to rise, faltered, and settled back. Fabrizio, still on his knees, shuffled closer to allow the old man to put a hand on his shoulder as an aid to standing.

  Giuseppe scowled at him, and then took up the chest at one end. Benito lifted the other. The two servants left the room.

  Mangus and Fabrizio followed.

  In the tavern’s main room, Signor Galda, the pole-thin and balding owner of the tavern, met them. He held out Mangus’s thick wool cloak and affectionately draped it over the old man’s shoulders.

  “Was it a good performance, Signore?”

  “Excellent,” said Mangus, patting his purse. “And as always, gracious thanks for letting me use your room.”

  “Ah, Signore,” returned the tavern owner, “it’s my pleasure. A goodly number of those who come to see you also eat and drink, so please, continue to perform here. Just send a servant on ahead to give me warning. This is your new boy, I presume.”

  Fabrizio beamed.

  “To be sure,” said Mangus. “I’ll send someone.”

  Someone? Fabrizio winced. Oh, please, Mistress, he thought, come back before Master discharges me.

  Mangus and Signor Galda exchanged a warm embrace, after which the old man and Fabrizio stepped onto the dark, blustery street. Benito and Giuseppe, twenty steps ahead with the chest, held up a fluttering torch to illuminate the narrow, stone-paved way.

  “With permission, Master,” said Fabrizio as he reached up and adjusted the cloak around his master’s neck. “You need to keep warm.”

  Mangus frowned and set off at a slow pace.

  Fabrizio stayed close. “Forgive me, Master. Mistress Sophia said I should look after you.”

  “I can take care of myself,” muttered Mangus.

  They walked on a few paces until Fabrizio, trying to coax Mangus into talking, said, “Master, your magic tonight was truly wonderful. That last piece — making something from nothing, and then many things — was fantastic. The whole town will be talking.”

  “Let’s hope not,” said Mangus. “Not only is the king deeply superstitious, he has outlawed magic. If his authorities learn what I do, they might, like you, believe I make real magic. I could find myself in trouble.”

  “Master, I know that not all you perform is real magic. But much is.”

  “There’s no such thing as magic,” insisted Mangus. “My skill is the ability to fool people into believing what I do is true. I do imitation magic — illusions. Like my costume, it’s just visual nonsense. Performing tricks is the way I put food on my table.”

  “But, Master, if you had lived on the streets as I did, you’d know that if you didn’t read the magic of the clouds, you couldn’t forecast the weather. And if you didn’t understand the magic of the sea, you couldn’t catch fish. And the stars, Master, if you don’t know how they move through the heavens, or … or how to read tarot cards, you couldn’t predict the future.”

  “Fabrizio, do you really believe such superstitions?”

  “Of course, Master, surely.”

  “Then what is your future?”

  “I pray it’s with you, Master,” whispered Fabrizio.

  “Fabrizio,” said an exasperated Mangus, “if you wish to remain in my household, know that my real love is philosophy, which is to say, reason and logic, not magic! Remember that.”

  Fabrizio was quiet for a few moments. “Master,” he suddenly said. “I just remembered something! When I was collecting coins at the door, someone whispered something strange into my ear.”

  “Which was?”

  “He said, ‘Tell your master he’s in grave danger.’”

  Mangus halted. “What! Who was this person?”

  “Forgive me, Master, I have no idea.”

  “You should have told me sooner. Describe him.”

  “Master,” said Fabrizio. “I was so surprised by his words, and his hasty departure, I can’t say what he looked like.”

  “Was he short?” demanded Mangus. “Tall?”

  “Much taller than me. Wrapped in a black robe with his face hidden in his hood.”

  “Fabrizio, Pergamontio is full of black robes: priests, monks, nuns.”

  “I just remembered something else: There was another black robe at our door this morning.”

  “This morning?”

  “I told him about your performance.”

  “Why?”

  “I was excited about going.”

  “As far as I recall, there was only one black robe in the audience,” said Mangus. “Did you see more?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, then, was the person at our door the same one who gave you the warning?”

  “I don’t know,” said Fabrizio, wishing Mangus’s angry eyes did not remind him so much of the skull’s eyes.

  “Fabrizio, pay attention to what’s visible and you can discover what’s hidden. The one who spoke to you at the performance: Was his robe all you noticed?”

  Fabrizio was afraid to look up. “Forgive me. I was surprised by what he said. I suppose to be surprised is to lose one’s wits.”

  “The great blessing, Fabrizio, of having wits,” chided Mangus, “is not to be surprised. Omne ignotum pro magnifico!”

  “Is that a magic spell, Master?”

  “It’s a Latin expression that means ‘Everything surprises if we lack knowledge of it.’”

  “I always thought that being surprised is the most unsurprising fate of man.”

  Mangus looked around at the boy. “Who told you that?”

  “It’s only what I’ve heard and seen. When you are a homeless orphan — as I was — the teachers God provides are one’s own eyes and ears.”

  “True enough,” murmured Mangus.

  After they had walked awhile, Fabrizio said, “Master, are you in danger?”

  “As I told you, King Claudio is terribly superstitious. He believes in magic and devils. His son, Prince Cosimo, holds to the same nonsense. Be advised: Fear most those who are fearful.

  “But, while the heir to the throne is Cosimo, the real power in the kingdom belongs to Count Scarazoni. It’s said he’s not superstitious. But the gossip is that the prince and the count are rivals.”

  “During your performance you spoke kindly of the king.”

  “Fabrizio,” Mangus cautioned, “a prudent man speaks differently inside and outside.”

  “Master, why don’t you use your magic to make the unpleasant people … vanish?”

  Mangus halted. “Fabrizio, once and for all, put magic out of your head! It’s not just folly, it’s dangerous! And if you paid attention to the real world, you would have noticed that we’ve arrived home.”

  “Forgive me, Master,” said Fabrizio, rushing forward to open the door of the old, two-story, timbered house.

  As soon as Mangus was inside, Fabrizio bolted the door behind them.

  An hour later, Fabrizio lay on his straw pallet in his small loft space thinking about his master’s performance. How thrilling it had been! How he wished he could do such
magic! He recalled Mistress Sophia’s words: “Make Master Mangus love you as much as I do.”

  But what can I do when Master doesn’t even like me?

  Then Fabrizio thought about the warning that had come from the black robe. If Master was in danger, perhaps he could protect him. Surely Master would love him then. He almost hoped that danger would come.

  CHAPTER 3

  TWO DAYS LATER, THE MORNING PROVED COLD. FABRIZIO, eager to be at his reading lesson before Mangus reached the study, raced through the household tasks. He warmed his master’s room, brought in wood, lit the fire, swept the hall steps and street, emptied the slop bucket, dumped the refuse, brought in water from the street fountain, and sprinkled new rushes on the floors. Then he dashed around the corner to Signor Loti’s store to purchase olive oil, which he placed in the back kitchen. Finally, he burst into Mangus’s study.

  “You’re late,” said Mangus without lifting his eyes from his reading.

  The old man, seated at his table, wore a multilayered woolen robe and old slippers. Half gloves left his fingers unencumbered, the better to turn the pages of his book. A cap covered his head.

  “Forgive me, Master,” said Fabrizio, standing by the doorway, breath misting in the chilly air. “Since Mistress is gone I’ve taken on a few of her tasks.”

  Mangus nodded but said nothing.

  Frustrated, Fabrizio went to the lectern and stared at his reading task for the week: a page from the poet Dante. During the past two days he had managed to read only six lines.

  Fabrizio blew on his fingertips to warm them. As far as he was concerned, the letters on the page — each one written by hand — were as heavy as stones. He would have to lift them one by one.

  He gazed at the first word of the seventh line. His heart sank. It was not a word he knew. He rubbed his eyes, twisted his fingers, and shifted his feet. Wishing help, he stole a glance at Mangus. His master was absorbed in his book. The skull lamp beside him seemed to glare at Fabrizio.

  Fabrizio turned back to the page and made himself sound out each letter over and over again — “De … De … ath. Death!” When he finally grasped the word’s meaning, he was exhausted.

  He looked about. There had to be more words in that room than in the rest of the world combined. It was as if he were at the bottom of a well of words. Glancing at his master, he wished for the millionth time he would teach him not reading but magic.

  Shifting so his back was to Mangus, Fabrizio took a few small pezollas from his pocket. He passed them back and forth under the lectern, practicing making them vanish from view.

  “Fabrizio!” called Mangus. “Attend to your reading!”

  Hastily putting away the coins, Fabrizio whispered, “With permission, Master, may I speak?”

  “If a fool speaks,” the magician growled while continuing to read from his book, “fools will be found who listen.”

  Fabrizio tried to think of something that might engage Mangus. “Master, I’ve heard it said that reading deadens the soul.”

  “Nonsense,” snapped Mangus. “If you are not well read, you might as well be dead.”

  “But, Master, some suggest that too much reading causes blindness.”

  Mangus looked up. “The wise person knows that reading books is the best way to see the world.”

  “I give thanks, then,” said Fabrizio, “that you have all the books in the world. As soon as I get through yours, I’ll never have to read another.”

  “There can never be enough books,” said Mangus. “The pity is it takes years to create each one.”

  “Is that true?” said the surprised boy.

  “Fabrizio, a book must first be written. To do so, the writer exchanges days for words, months for paragraphs, and years for chapters — time turned into books. There’s your magic.

  “Then,” Mangus continued, “that book must be copied with a fair hand. The result? No two are ever alike. That’s why books are full of mistakes. Visit a scriptorium. You’ll see how many men and months it takes to copy one volume.

  “Even so, the book, once copied, must be illustrated. And bound. In short, it takes vast work and time to make a single tome. Indeed, a book can take as long to be copied as to be written. Wherefore so few volumes. If you are ever fortunate enough to go to school, you’ll have to copy your own texts.”

  In his head Fabrizio vowed never to go to such a ghastly place. But all he said was, “No wonder reading is so hard.”

  “In your case it’s merely your hard head that makes reading difficult.”

  “Then why insist I learn, Master?”

  “Would you like the world to be one color?”

  “I suppose not. Everything would be like mud.”

  “The same for thought and speech,” said Mangus. “Reading provides you with words — like the colors of God’s rainbow — to paint your ideas, to give beauty and variety to thought. Be advised,” the old man said sternly, “I’ll keep no ignorant servants in my house.”

  “Master,” Fabrizio whispered. “I’d rather learn magic.”

  “Your learning to read will be magic enough.”

  “I’m trying to learn one trick,” offered Fabrizio. “How to make coins vanish.”

  “Every boy who eats knows that trick.” Mangus touched the books around him with affection. “Here is Plato. Aristotle. Petrarch. Boccaccio. The sublime Dante sits before you. Fabrizio, these are the world’s true magicians. Learn to read them and all mysteries shall be revealed.” Curbing his enthusiasm, the magician said, “Enough! Attend to your reading.”

  Fabrizio sighed. “Perhaps Signori Benito and Giuseppe need me.”

  “They went off to the market. Now, in the name of heaven, Fabrizio, let me read! And you —”

  Thudding erupted on the front door.

  “Shall I see who’s there, Master?” Fabrizio had already sprung away from the lectern and was heading for the door.

  “Stop! I don’t wish to see anyone. Send whoever it is away.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Fabrizio ran down the hallway and unbolted the door. Before him stood a very stout man. His face was round, with moist, cowlike eyes, a bulbous nose with hairy nostrils, soft, puffy cheeks, and a grizzled chin. He was wheezing, and the stench of garlic spewed from his loose, thick-lipped mouth. But his bright blue robe — trimmed with white rabbit fur — proclaimed him as a lofty member of the legal profession. Moreover, behind him stood a blue-coated law-court soldier with a sharp pike in hand.

  Fabrizio made a bow. “May I be of service, Signore?”

  “I,” the man bellowed while waving his hands around like an excited windmill, “am Signor Brutus Lucian DeLaBina, Primo Magistrato of Pergamontio! In charge of all law in our glorious kingdom. I’m here to speak to Mangus the Magician. Take me to him.” His strenuous gestures were such that he pulled out a large green handkerchief to mop sweat from his face.

  “Signore,” said Fabrizio, “with permission, he’s reading a book and can’t be bothered.”

  “I assure you,” proclaimed the magistrato, shaping his words with his hands, “I am more important than any book! Tell your master if he wishes to remain alive, he will see me — now!”

  Startled, Fabrizio said, “Of course, Signore! Let me announce you.” He raced back down the hallway and stuck his head into Mangus’s study.

  “Master,” he whispered, “a large, loud, and pompous signore in a blue robe demands to see you.”

  Mangus kept reading. “The last person I want to see is a lawyer.”

  “Yes, Master. But … this man said you will see him if you wish to remain alive.”

  Mangus looked up. “Who is this absurd person?”

  “Primo Magistrato Brutus Lucian DeLaBina.”

  “DeLaBina?” Mangus cried, his face turning gray. “Here?” He covered the book he was reading with a sheet of parchment.

  “Master, is he trouble?”

  “He’s Pergamontio’s chief prosecutor,” said Mangus in an agitated
voice, “in charge of all laws and licenses. He presides over the Hall of Justice like a hunting dog, sniffing out whatever he deems evil and chewing it up without mercy.”

  “Master, is this what you were warned about two nights ago?”

  “Let’s hope not!”

  “Shall I send him away?”

  “Fabrizio! If the primo magistrato comes to my door, I’ve no choice but to see him. Lead him in. Quickly! The greater the pomposity, the less the patience.”

  “Yes, Master,” said an alarmed Fabrizio, tearing back to the front door.

  CHAPTER 4

  WITH FABRIZIO RIGHT BEHIND HIM, A WHEEZING DeLaBina stomped loudly into the magician’s room. The moment he appeared, Mangus, cap in hand, stood up and bowed.

  “Signor Magistrato, you honor me greatly.”

  “Silence!” proclaimed DeLaBina. He held up a fat hand as if testing the wind.

  Fabrizio, surprised to see his master so deferential, edged around the table to be near. Simultaneously, he kept his eyes on DeLaBina, who was looking about the room as if in search of something.

  “Signor Magician, you keep a disorderly place.”

  “It will do for the likes of me, Signor Magistrato.”

  “It will do for hiding things,” DeLaBina sneered. “Are all these papers and books about black magic?”

  “Signore,” said Mangus, “you will search in vain for even one book of black magic. My books were written by great philosophers. To be sure, you will find a few books that teach magic tricks, the illusions I perform as a way of earning bread for my household. Children’s entertainment, you might say. For the ignorant.”

  Fabrizio, sensing his master’s increasing distress, was becoming upset.

  “So you claim,” said DeLaBina, waving away such notions with a sweep of his hand. “But the world knows magic as the work of the devil. Indeed, Mangus” — he wagged a finger — “I have heard rumors that you are engaged in that kind of magic. Be aware! King Claudio insists that all magic be suppressed. The penalty for practicing it is death.”

  A trembling Mangus bowed. “Signore, I can assure you, my sole interests are truth and logic, which is to say, reason.”