The Alchemist's Code

PBLTN VLAZA ZRJVJ L

He had not even noticed my LAZ in there.

“So there you are, Vizio,” the Maestro said. “That is how it is enciphered. Now let us try some deciphering. We need to know if the same keyword will work for all four intercepted messages. Page one of one, if you please.”

With surprisingly little help from me, Vasco managed to reverse the process and start recovering the original plaintext:

He stopped. “This is gibberish!”

The Maestro sighed. “Perhaps the key word is not the same, then.” He was carefully not looking at me, who could read over Vasco’s shoulder. Unlike Vasco, though, I was reading: 11 Agosto. Il Consiglio dei Deci…*

“Let us try the final dispatch then. Page one of four, please.”

Again Vasco balked after a few groups, but this time a ray broke through the clouds. “Wait a moment! They begin with dates!”

15 Settembre. Il presidio…*

“Why, so they do!” I cried.

The game was over. Vasco hastily covered his work with his hands.

“You don’t need to see this!”

“Of course not,” the Maestro agreed. “You can let Missier Grande into the secret and he can decipher the rest.”

But I was confident that the Maestro himself would break the news to Circospetto, so he could watch Sciara gnash his fangs in mortification. Vasco looked at him as if suspecting the sort of elaborate hoax that I love to play on him every time I get the chance, but which the Maestro considers beneath his dignity.

“This nonsense will translate everything?”

Nostradamus sighed and opened a drawer. “Here is a deciphered version of the page you left in the dining room.”

It was his own version, and Vasco needed some time to decipher the scrawl and artificial letter groups. As he did, he grew paler and paler.

“The interesting thing,” the Maestro remarked, and now he was looking at me, although his expression gave away nothing, “was that Circospetto lied to us.”

“Yes, he did,” I agreed. Today was September 23. If Algol’s fourth dispatch reported news of events on September 15, there had not been time for it to reach Constantinople and the Republic’s spy there to copy it and report back to Venice. Of all the states Algol might be working for, even Rome, the closest, would require almost impossible timing. If the Ten were opening Algol’s mail right here in the city, why did they not know the sender?

Vasco would never work that out, but before he rose to the bait, the door swung wide and in marched Bruno, carrying a bundle of firewood that would have flattened me. We have taught him to knock on doors, but he does not understand “audibly,” so it does no good. Beaming at us, he delivered his burden to the hearth, then strode out again, leaving the door open.

“Chilled?” Vasco inquired icily.

“Important business,” the Maestro said. “I must report to the chiefs. You are welcome to accompany us, Vizio. Go and pack up your things. You can be of no further use here.”

Almost no other commoner in Venice would have dared speak to Vasco like that, but he took it from the Ten’s consultant. Glowering at me to indicate that our temporary truce was now ended, he stuffed the latest paper in his satchel and departed.

The Maestro detests having to go out, and I could not recall him ever doing so two days in a row. He must be expecting a handsome reward, in satisfaction, if not in coin. I hurried to my room to don my best. This time I decided to sacrifice good manners on the altar of security, for I knew we were on dangerous business and would be lacking Filiberto’s dubious protection on the way home. I retrieved my rapier and dagger from the top of the wardrobe.

As Giorgio’s strong oar sped us along the Grand Canal toward the Doges’ Palace, I heard the bells of San Giacomo di Rialto tolling sunset.