The Alchemist's Code

35

T hey could have arrested me for spying on their meeting, but I had taken the same oath of secrecy as the Maestro. What mattered more was that he had solved their espionage problem for them in record time. It would be more true to say that the weather had solved it for them by driving the Sanudos indoors, or Danese had, by getting himself transferred to a bedroom where he would not have had the option of sitting by the window and taking notes. No matter, the Maestro could take the credit and look forward to a handsome fee; the Signoria could go away happy and prepare for the Sunday afternoon meeting of the Great Council. It is to the Great Council that the Ten report their activities, but the Algol case would obviously not be reported to anyone.

The Maestro’s stellar performance had tired him, though. When I had bowed the last guest off along the canal, I went back upstairs and found him already planted in his favorite chair. He glowered at me, which I took to be a good sign.

“Bring me the Dee papers.”

That was an even better sign, because he has been running a savage argument with the heretic sage for years, and nothing would restore him like a good upsurge of choler. I could confidently expect to find several pages of venom and vilification lying on my side of the desk in the morning, waiting to be enciphered.

I headed over to the wall of books. John Dee, of course, is not merely a heretic and a skilled practitioner of the occult, but also a close confidant of the English queen, so his correspondence must be kept in one of the secret compartments. I knelt and began to empty a shelf of its books, stacking them on the floor beside me. “Thank you very much, master.”

“For what?”

“For setting Vasco up by opening the spyhole so he could watch the seance. I wish you’d warned me, though.”

“If I’d warned you beforehand, you might have started to giggle in the middle. And I had no chance to warn you afterward with the bat-eared vizio skulking around.”

“But you took a terrible risk,” I said, “letting him watch us practice necromancy.”

“Bah! We didn’t! That was the whole point. What I did was mere mummery. You saw how easy it was to burst that bubble. You, though, used the Word, which is authentic thaumaturgy. They might have let Gritti have you for that, but the doge’s physician is too valuable to burn.”

And I wasn’t. He had saved me at no small risk to himself, so I must not sound ungrateful. “Yes, master. Thanks anyway.”

I slid aside the panel at the back of the shelf and retrieved the Dee bundles, which occupy three pigeon holes. Having delivered them, I went back to replace the panel and the screen of books.

“If you don’t need me this fine Sunday, I think I’ll go and have a chat with Father Farsetti.”

“Why? Is something troubling you?” Danese Dolfin demanded behind me.

I was squatting. In trying to spin around, I lost my balance, dropped a pile of books in my lap, and sat down heavily. “That’s a much better imitation than I did,” I said, glowering.

The Maestro smirked. “Keep practicing! Oh, leave that. Go see the priest if you want, but I’d say you’d do better to visit that woman of yours and collect a few sins worth confessing.”

I was supposed to look stunned, which wasn’t difficult. “You really did get Guarini’s name from Giorgio?”

“I said so, didn’t I? You think I would lie under oath?”

“Then where did Mirphak come from?”

“Ah, yes. Mirphak? Ahem! Well, as you told Gritti, it was a shot in the dark. I invented it to use up one of your three questions. I wanted you to ask for Algol’s name and address. I didn’t want you asking something else that Dolfin would have known and I did not. As a matter of principle, apprentice: A deception should be demarcated in advance so that it does not wander out of control.”

“Thank you for that apophthegm, master. And no Baphomet?”

“None. The book’s a total fake. It doesn’t work. I’ve tried it before. Either it was put together by the Inquisition to scare some of the other Templars into confessing, or Raymbaud held back some of the spell. Now get out of here! Go!”

“Yes, master.” I went.

A week or so later, Marco Martini dropped by again, this time to deliver a draft on the Banco della Piazza, whose size made my eyes pop, and for which I wrote him a most beautiful receipt in black letter gothic. Surprisingly, Zuanbattista Sanudo eventually paid the rest of the fee the Maestro had charged him for almost getting me murdered on the Riva del Vin.

And Francesco Guarini? Francesco Guarini was tried in secret and sentenced to five years in the galleys. Francesco Guarini escaped from his cell in the palace and fled to Egypt. Francesco Guarini was tried in secret, strangled, and his body dumped in the Orfano Canal, where the tide could take it away. Believe whichever you like, because Francesco Guarini was never heard from again, at least not by me. I’d bet on the third ending, were I a gambling lad.

Close to Christmas, I saw the Sanudo gondola going by with Fabricio wielding the oar, so his exile had not lasted long. Just after Christmas, Girolamo Sanudo resigned from the Collegio and took the Franciscan habit and the name of Brother Pio. Zuanbattista served out his term as ducal counselor and thereafter declined office, indicating that if the Great Council elected him, he would refuse and pay whatever fine it levied. It did not nominate him after that, and he has reputedly been concentrating on his business interests ever since.

The following summer, Grazia sent me a polite note asking if I, as Danese’s best friend, would stand as godfather for their son. I had never been a friend of his, best or worst, but I accepted. In my old age, I may have need of a very rich godson, which Alfeo Dolfin will certainly be. His great-aunt Fortunata came to the ceremony, looking twenty years younger. She stayed well away from me, though.