The Alchemist's Apprentice

20

T he 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?”

“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 Dona. 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 Nostradamus 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.

“My master would like to have the servant Pulaki Guarana attend the demonstration, and also a certain Domenico Chiari. We do not know their present whereabouts. Perhaps the Council does?”

The chairman said, “Even we can’t know everything, lad. You want warrants? I s’pose…Can we order the Imer man to allow this invasion of his home, Avogadoro?”

The prosecutor smiled thinly. “The learned attorney is certainly aware that it is every citizen’s duty to assist the Council of Ten in its inquiries. As long as compliance is voluntary, verbal invitations would be adequate.”

And non-compliance would be prima facie evidence of guilt of course. The chairman glanced at his companions and both nodded. Sciara took up his pen again.

“Let it be recorded,” Morosini declaimed, “that the chiefs raised no objection to the petitioner organizing a private party to reenact the events at the Imer residence…within the existing laws governing assemblies. The petitioner was so advised, and…”-more glances and nods-“…and Missier Grande was instructed to ensure that the proposed gathering be conducted in an orderly fashion.”

I bowed, backed away three steps, and bowed again.

Bruno bowed also. Missier Grande strode across to open the door and see us out to the anteroom. One of the fanti closed the door behind us.

“Find the vizio, ” Missier Grande told him. “Quickly. I’ll watch this door.” Both men vanished out the door to the staircase. He turned back to me with an eye colder than the peaks of the Dolomites. “That man you scared to death yesterday-we had been keeping him under observation for months. The Ten nearly skinned me, because of your meddling.”

For once I could think of nothing to say, so I said nothing.

“Does Attorney Imer know you want to stage a masque in his house?”

“Not yet, Missier. ”

“Do any of the ‘guests’ know?”

“Not yet, Missier. ”

He growled. “So now I’m going to have to send Vasco out with you again, wasting another day of his time as if he had nothing better to do? I warn you, Alfeo Devil-take-you Zeno, that when he came back with a corpse yesterday, the chiefs tore his balls off and made him eat them. The vizio likes you even less than I do. Now I will more or less be putting him under your orders, so I suggest very strongly that you do not say so! If you try to lord it over him, he may lose you in a canal somewhere, and if he does, I do not intend to lead the search party.”

What Filiberto Vasco had in mind for me was forty or fifty lashes, I recalled. Perhaps ten of those had been added by yesterday’s disaster; the rest had been building up over the years.

“The Maestro is very sure of himself,” I said quietly. “He is certain that Karagounis did not poison the procurator and that someone else did.”

Missier Grande grunted. “He had better be right. You are not to mention the chiefs, understand? You do not speak with their authority.”

“If I cannot say that the Council of Ten has given its permission, then no one is going to turn up.”

He growled again, longer. “Vasco’s presence will tell them that.”

For a moment there was silence, but it was too uncomfortable to last.

“I assume you have Pulaki Guarana locked up?” I asked.

“I will see he is there tonight.”

“And Domenico Chiari, the interpreter?”

“Never heard of him.” Missier Grande ’s basilisk stare dared me to call him a liar. I didn’t. “Just between us two, sier Alfeo, who do you think your master is going to accuse?”

I was not going to fall into that trap. Any opinion I ventured would be held against me by somebody. “I honestly do not know, Missier Grande. I have learned never to try and outguess the Maestro.”

A glare from Gasparo Quazza would strike terror into Medusa. “If he is so frightened of having the name mentioned beforehand that he does not even tell you, his trusted apprentice, does that not suggest that the person he will accuse is someone of importance?”

Of course it did. It might also suggest that the Maestro thought the murderer was possessed. Karagounis might have died to save another demon from exposure and eviction. Mentioning that theory would land me in even worse trouble.

“Being a doctor, he regards everyone as being of importance, Missier Grande.”

The silence was now deadly. Fortunately at that moment my dear friend Filiberto Vasco flew in, cloak swirling. He shied back when he saw me and bared his teeth like a horse. He was sweating like one, too, from his run up all those stairs.

“It’s more bad news,” Quazza told him. “The chiefs have agreed to let Nostradamus organize revels. The host doesn’t know it yet and none of the guests will want to attend. So you have to accompany this pest around the city and make sure everybody understands they are under absolutely no compulsion to cooperate, but if they don’t show up their absence will be noted. Attendance is purely voluntary, but God help those who stay away. No threats, though. Understand?”

The vizio ’s eyes measured me for the rack. “And when do I get to extract the real story from Alfeo Zeno? Soon, please?”

“Tomorrow, perhaps. If his master doesn’t pull off another of his miracles tonight, Their Excellencies will be very upset. Then I think we can certainly bring Alfeo in for questioning.”

Vasco smiled hungrily. “I look forward to it.”

“So do I. I’ll take the first hour. Carry on.” Missier Grande Quazza went back into the meeting room.