Murder at Midnight (4 page)

D
E
L
A
B
INA LED THE WAY, GALLOPING THROUGH THE
city’s narrow, winding streets, to the Hall of Justice. The great stone building with its high tower stood on Pergamontio’s main city square, directly opposite the city cathedral. Fabrizio had always thought it beautiful. Now all he could think about was that the building bulged with courts, lawyers’ offices, barracks for the law-court soldiers, as well as many jail cells, and even an executioner. Milling around the entryway was an army of Scarazoni’s green-coated soldiers — more than Fabrizio had ever seen there before.

The magistrato barked a sharp command. Fabrizio was yanked from the horse, then made to march swiftly through the entrance. Its columns made him think of gigantic teeth and that he was about to be chewed up and swallowed alive.

At the end of a hall they approached a closed door guarded by more green-coated soldiers. DeLaBina halted.

“Signor Magistrato!” a court soldier demanded. “What is the password?”

“The King’s Justice,” said a voice.

Startled, DeLaBina wheeled around. Fabrizio followed the magistrato’s look. “My lord,” said the magistrato.

Prince Cosimo — the king’s elder son and heir to the throne — stepped forward. He was a tall, lanky fellow in his midtwenties, with a boyish pink-cheeked face, pug nose, and a thin wisp of a blond mustache that made him look very young. His clothing was quite elegant: a bright blue jacket with pearl buttons, a golden cloak draped over one shoulder, a purple velvet cap with a long green feather, yellow leggings, red boots, and white gloves.

Fabrizio looked upon him with relief. Perhaps Cosimo, looking kind in nature, would take pity on him. Immediately, he fastened his hopes on him. But the young man ignored Fabrizio and looked only at DeLaBina, offering a tiny nod of recognition. A flustered DeLaBina bowed and blotted the sweat from his bulging neck with his handkerchief.

The prince led the way into a room that made Fabrizio
gasp. It had a lofty, coffered ceiling of intricate wood carving, a display of rich tapestries, large wall paintings, fine furniture, and a whole array of multicolored flags, bloody swords, dented shields, and torn battle banners. Here was a world of vast wealth and power.

DeLaBina grabbed the frightened Fabrizio by the neck and with a kick forced him forward until he stood before a slightly raised platform at the end of the room. There, seated on a bench covered with golden cloth, sat the king of Pergamontio himself — Claudio the Thirteenth.

The king was a short, wide man of middling years. His skin was coarse, his nose thick, his lips — surrounded by a heavy close-cropped gray beard — were frowning. His hands — barnacled with great glittering rings — were large, broad-fingered, and in constant fidget while moist, edgy eyes kept looking now here, now there, as if on alert for an attack that might come at any moment. Indeed, he kept gripping and releasing the ruby-encrusted dagger that hung from his belt. Fabrizio had no doubt: The dagger, despite its jewels, was not merely ornamental.

As Prince Cosimo joined his father and stood on the king’s left, Fabrizio kept trying to catch his eye, but to no effect.

Next to Prince Cosimo stood Prince Lorenzo, the king’s second and younger son. Fabrizio saw nothing elegant or powerful about him, nothing to suggest he might help.

And then Fabrizio realized that standing on the king’s right was Count Scarazoni. Dressed entirely in black, Count Scarazoni had a thin, pinched face with dark eyebrows that swept over his angry eyes like a bar of iron. His mouth was a grim, bloodless line while a sharp, pointed beard shaped his chin. His hands — encased in tight black leather gloves — were balled into fists. A dagger hung from his belt, too. Fabrizio thought him coiled with fury, ready to strike.

There were, Fabrizio knew, a Queen Jovanna and a Princess Teresina, the king and queen’s daughter. Neither was present.

Confronted by such riches and magnificence, and all these powerful people staring at him, Fabrizio felt
utterly alone.
Why did I ever offer to collect those papers?
he asked himself.

Then he realized that in the king’s hand was one of the treasonous papers.

“My lords,” bellowed DeLaBina, “I have requested your presence here so I might speak on dangerous matters of state!” He bowed to the king.

Fabrizio, feeling he must do something, bowed as well.

King Claudio had been whispering to Prince Cosimo, showing him the paper. The prince, with nervous care, took the paper in his hands cautiously. Hearing DeLaBina, he looked up. To Fabrizio’s surprise, however, it was the count, his face knotted with rage, who called, “Yes, DeLaBina! Why did you ask us to come down here?”

“Your Majesty, noble princes, great count,” replied DeLaBina, “vile writings have been circulating throughout the city.”

The king shifted uneasily on his bench. “You mean this attack on me?” He pointed to the paper in the prince’s hand.

“The same, my lord.”

“Which has appeared in such great numbers?” said the count.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And circulated freely throughout the city?” the count added.

“Quite true, my lord,” said DeLaBina.

“There are those,” cried the count, “who apparently would like to depose the king and end his rightful rule! Let me state here and now, that
all
such conspiracies will be crushed without mercy. I don’t care whose evil hand concocted this plot.” The count glared at DeLaBina. “Anyone —
anyone
— high or low — who so much as touches our anointed king — shall pay a dreadful penalty!” His hand went to his dagger.

Fabrizio trembled at his rage.

King Claudio, white-faced, retreated into a corner of the bench as if wishing to hide. “That’s true enough, Count,” he said. “We intend to remain on our rightful throne so long as a loving God gives us strength to breathe.” In a feeble display of anger, he pulled out his dagger and rested it on his lap.

“And let the world know,” Prince Cosimo added, “that I, too, have the strength and will to protect my father.” He put one hand on the king’s shoulder as if to reassure him, even as he took away the king’s dagger, the way a parent might remove a dangerous toy from a child.

“Quite correct, my lords,” said DeLaBina, bowing toward the king with almost every syllable he spoke. “I can assure you that His Majesty’s Ministry of Justice and Licenses — which I have the honor to command — is here to expose all traitors!”

“And if you don’t, I shall,” said the prince, looking over the king’s head toward the count while putting his father’s dagger in his own belt.

It made Fabrizio recall something Mangus had said, that the count and prince were rivals for the king’s attention.

“My lord,” said DeLaBina, this time speaking directly to the king. “Fear not. I have made much progress in this matter. I’ve determined that the identical replications of these papers prove they have come from the most evil of malefactors, the heart of sinfulness.”

“Ghosts?” cried the king. “Is that who made the papers? Ghosts can do anything they wish, you know. They go everywhere, too. Did they make the papers?”

“Worse,” said DeLaBina.

“Worse?” cried the king. “What … what could be worse than ghosts?” He gripped the edge of the bench as if to spring up and run.

“My king,” said DeLaBina, “considering your importance in this world, it’s no wonder that you have attracted an enemy more fearful than ghosts. It is —” He paused dramatically.

“Who?” the king asked, his voice trembling.

“My lord,” said DeLaBina, “I fear it is … someone in league with the devil.”

“God protect me!” shrieked the king.

“Which is to say,” DeLaBina hurried on, “someone ordered these treasonous papers to be made —
magically.”

No sooner did DeLaBina say this than the prince — who had been holding the paper — cried out,
“Magic?
God preserve us!” and flung it away as if it were on fire.

“It’s just what I’ve always feared,” cried the king. “Malignant spirits — ghosts — devils — hover about Pergamontio and wish to do us harm!” He looked with dismay first at Prince Cosimo and then at Count Scarazoni. “Count Scarazoni. Why have you done nothing about this?”

The count ignored the question and spoke instead to the magistrato. “Signor DeLaBina, do you truly believe these papers were made
magically
?”

“How else can you explain that so many were made exactly the same? So yes, made magically, but ordered by someone.”

“Where is this someone?” demanded Count Scarazoni. “If you can bring him forward, I shall cut out his heart!”

Oh, my poor master!
thought Fabrizio.

“My lord,” said DeLaBina, “I won’t
guess
where that particular person might be at this moment. For all I know he could be in this room.” He stared at Scarazoni. “At this point I only know the individual who actually made these papers.”

“Who … who might that be?” stammered the alarmed king.

“My lord, it is” — DeLaBina paused for effect — “it is Mangus the Magician!”

Fabrizio groaned inwardly.

The king looked bewildered. “Who?” he demanded.

“He is speaking,” said Count Scarazoni, “of a magician who resides in your city.”

“A
magician
?” said the king, staring at the count with horror. “Here? In my Pergamontio?”

“He lives on the Street of the Olive Merchants,” said Scarazoni.

How does he know that?
Fabrizio wondered.

“But … but magicians are terribly dangerous,” said the king. “If you knew of this magician, Count, why did you not inform me?”

“Yes, Count,” said the prince, “you seem to know all about this magician.”

“Do you know about him?” the king demanded of Scarazoni.

“Let us hear what DeLaBina says first,” said the count.

The next moment DeLaBina turned and forced Fabrizio into a kneeling position. “My lords, before you is the wretched servant boy of this Mangus the Magician. He goes by the name of …”

Before he completed the sentence, Count Scarazoni said, “Fabrizio.”

Once again Fabrizio was startled. How could the count know his name?

DeLaBina, equally surprised, recovered quickly. “Apparently, Count, you have considerable knowledge of this magician. I suppose
you
will not be surprised to know that when
I
apprehended this boy,
I
discovered these on him.” The magistrato reached into his blue robe and pulled out the papers Fabrizio had collected.

“Your Majesty,” continued DeLaBina, “this boy admitted to me that Mangus was practicing magic. The papers I found on him are the same as you held in your hand. One of my informants told me this boy was distributing the papers throughout the city. I caught him in the act.”

“Not true, Your Majesty,” Fabrizio whispered.

No one even heard him.

“One can hardly imagine,” said DeLaBina, “such a stupid, lowborn fellow doing such a thing if he was not following
somebody’s
orders.”

“Who told the magician to make the papers?” asked the prince.

“I am afraid,” said DeLaBina, looking at the count, “there is as yet an unknown accomplice.”

The king sat up. “If this magician is
making
these papers, then surely he can tell us who the traitor is. Arrest him. Force him to reveal who asked him to make the papers.” He paused and looked at Fabrizio. “Is this boy a … magician, too?”

“Of course not,” said Scarazoni.

“Good! Then bring him forward. I’ll question him right now.”

DeLaBina pushed Fabrizio forward with such force that the boy fell to his knees. When he looked up, the king was staring at him with nervous fascination.

“Boy!” cried the king. “Does your master practice magic?”

“Majesty … with permission,” Fabrizio stammered, “I
humbly, respectfully, and truthfully beg to inform you that my master had nothing to —”

“Does he commune with ghosts?” demanded the king.

“Is he a sorcerer?” asked Prince Cosimo.

“No … please,” said Fabrizio. “He … had nothing to do with —”

“Then tell me who asked him to make the papers.”

“Your Majesty …”

“Tell me!” cried the king.

Fabrizio was aware everyone was looking at him. Desperate, he searched for a friendly face. He gazed at Prince Cosimo, pleading silently with imploring eyes for help. “I … I … believe it is —”

Prince Cosimo turned pale. “Father, don’t waste your time with this wretch. Since the magician is guilty, take this worthless servant to the lowest dungeon of the Hall of Justice — to the executioner. Have the boy executed within twenty-four hours as an example to all who would threaten us.”

“Yes,” cried the king. “Lead him away. DeLaBina! Arrest the magician!”

Before a shocked Fabrizio fully grasped what was happening, he was seized by two soldiers and dragged off.

T
WO COURT SOLDIERS, THEIR SMOKY TORCHES SPATTERING
shadows on the walls, marched Fabrizio down steep stone steps. They went around twisty bends, along clammy, spiderwebbed hallways, through narrow, moss-clotted passageways. Every turn confused him. Every step lower terrified him. As far as Fabrizio could tell, he was being taken to the very bottom of the Hall of Justice.

At last they reached the end of a narrow corridor where a bulky wooden door — strapped and studded with black bolts — blocked the way. One of the soldiers used his sword butt to bang on it.

The door swung open. A huge, filth-slathered, pale-skinned man with knobby legs and long-muscled arms peered out. He wore a stained leather smock that reached scabby knees. His feet were bare, with hammertoes that curled upon themselves like claws. To Fabrizio the man looked like a gigantic maggot.

“There you are, Agrippa,” said one of the soldiers. “You do take your time.”

“Forgive me,” said the executioner in a voice that surprised Fabrizio with its mildness. “I get weary sitting here, waiting. Makes a man slow.” He blinked. “Have you brought me business?”

“We have.”

“Let’s have a look.” The executioner reached out a heavy hand and shoved one of the soldiers aside. His gray eyes blinked at Fabrizio. Staring up with revulsion, the boy started back.

“Why, he’s just a minnow,” said Agrippa.

“What do you care?” said a soldier. “Do what you’re told: Execute him.”

“Who ordered his death?” asked Agrippa.

“Prince Cosimo.”

“That’s unusual. Mostly it’s Scarazoni who sends folk here. What’s this tadpole done?”

“Does it matter?” said one of the soldiers.

The executioner shrugged his great shoulders. “I suppose not. What’s his sentence?”

“To be executed at the end of twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four hours! The usual practice is for prisoners
to suffer a week before they are executed. This one must have done something terrible.”

“Why should you care?”

“Fine,” said Agrippa. “I can save a
pezolla
by not feeding him. Not that such a minnow would eat much.” He reached out, but Fabrizio jerked back, trying to break away from the soldiers. They were too quick, and held him. The executioner grabbed the boy by a shoulder and yanked him forward. Fabrizio stumbled into the cell, all but tripping over a corpse that lay upon the ground.

“And take this one out,” said Agrippa, indicating the body.

“Is he dead?” asked a soldier.

“I hope so. I broke his neck three days ago.”

Sick to his stomach, Fabrizio pressed himself against the far wall.

The soldiers crowded into the small room, grabbed the dead man’s legs, and dragged him out, slamming the door behind them.

Fabrizio looked about. The small space was illuminated by a few glowing coals in a rusty iron bucket. Along with
the feeble light, the coals oozed caustic smoke that lay like ribbons in the reeking air. The room’s walls, low ceiling, and floor were made of crudely cut stone. Wisps of rotten, clotted hay lay scattered. The only bright thing in the room was a large hourglass hanging motionless from a chain affixed to the ceiling. Its bulky bottom bulb was filled with white sand.

All that Fabrizio could think was that just a short time ago he had been snug and safe in Master’s house. Now he was in this bleak and desolate place. And there he would remain for twenty-four hours, after which he would be put to a cruel death for no reason at all.

The executioner sat cross-legged on the floor, blocking the door. Arms folded over his massive chest, he continued to examine Fabrizio with curiosity.

Fabrizio, struggling to breathe, said, “Please, Signore. My name is —” only to have Agrippa press one of his large, filthy hands over his mouth.

“I don’t want to know your name,” the man announced. “Hard enough to execute someone. Knowing names makes it harder.” He removed his hand.

The moment he did, Fabrizio cried, “My name is Fabrizio!”

The executioner sighed. “Gory. That always happens. Soon as I tell people
not
to reveal their names, they do. Executioners have feelings, too, you know. Not that anybody cares about making things more difficult for me.”

“For you?” said Fabrizio. “What about me?”

Agrippa shrugged. “Your life will be short. Mine longer. Look at it that way, and you’ll see it’s more of a problem for me than for you. All the same, I’m pleased to meet you, Signor Fabrizio. I sincerely regret our acquaintance will be brief.”

“I confess,” said Fabrizio, “I’m not pleased to meet you.”

He looked around only to notice, with surprise, that the door behind the executioner had been left ajar. His eyes widened.

“You’re an alert one,” said Agrippa. “Yes, the door is open. I always keep it that way. Gives my prisoners some hope. Hope, I think, is a good thing.”

“Hope is a good way to start your dinner but a bad way to finish it,” Fabrizio shot back.

“Ah, a clever lad!” Agrippa’s grin revealed stumps of yellowing teeth. “But I’m strong. So you won’t escape. I mean, you don’t want to spend the rest of your life — short though it may be — in pain, do you?”

Fabrizio leaned back against the wall, shut his eyes, and took a deep breath. “An old man once told me that when there’s nowhere to go, it’s best to stay where you are.”

“Don’t complain,” said Agrippa. “I’ll be here much longer than you.”

“Don’t you like your job?” said Fabrizio.

“When I was your age, I wanted to be a stonemason. Something respectable and everlasting about building homes and walls. Outdoors, too. The good God willed it otherwise, didn’t he? Still, I should be grateful for work that keeps me alive.”

“Except you stay alive by making others die.” Fabrizio pointed to the hourglass. “What’s that for?”

“Kind of you to remind me. The sand measures your
remaining time.” Agrippa lumbered up and flipped the hourglass over.

“You heard the soldier,” he said, resuming his place by the door. “After twenty-four hours you die.”

Fabrizio watched the sand trickle down. He turned away.

“Some of my guests,” said Agrippa, “want to end things quickly. The guilty ones, mostly. Not the innocent. Odd how optimism and innocence cling together. A depressing connection, if you ask me.”

“Do you kill the innocent, too?” asked Fabrizio.

“I’m not a judge, am I?” said Agrippa.

“But if you were, you’d find me innocent. All I wanted to do was help my master. He needs help. If you wished, I’d be happy to beg for mercy.”

“Sorry. I’m not a pardoner, either. Just an executioner.”

Fabrizio was silent for a while. “How … how do you … execute people?”

Agrippa held up his large, dirty hands. “I break their necks.”

Fabrizio, unable to keep from touching his own neck, watched the thread of sand trickle down. He felt it hard to breathe.

“Unless of course the king decides to send a messenger. A reprieve.”

“Does that happen?” asked Fabrizio, eagerly.

“Not once,” Agrippa replied. “Still, they say the more a thing hasn’t happened, the greater the chances are that it might. But I’ll be honest: Your death will more likely take place sooner.”

“Sooner!” cried Fabrizio.

“Now that happens a lot. Count Scarazoni gets impatient. But, don’t worry. You’ll be forewarned. A messenger comes and knocks on this door — loudly. If you hear it — and you’re not likely to miss it — pray for your soul. The end is soon.”

“Considering what you do, you seem cheerful enough.”

“When I first got this job, I said to myself, ‘Agrippa, no reason to make things worse for your guests, is there?’ A light touch eases the way.”

Fabrizio, his teeth chattering, drew up his knees to gather some measure of warmth.

“Look here,” said Agrippa, reaching out and rapping Fabrizio on the foot. “I don’t have much of a social life. Just when I get to know a fellow, I have to kill him. I’d love a chat. It passes the time. Or would you prefer silence?”

“I’d like the sand to stop.”

“No one can stop time. Just tell me, Signor Fabrizio, since I’m your sole remaining friend — what was your crime?”

“I did nothing!”
Fabrizio shouted.

“No need to yell. I just want you to know I feel it’s my obligation to believe anything my guests say. Makes them feel better.”

“But I
am
innocent!” Fabrizio covered his face with his hands to keep from seeing the hourglass.

“Then why did Prince Cosimo condemn you to death?”

“I don’t know,” wailed Fabrizio. “Maybe he’s protecting his father.”

“I’m protecting my master! But now they’re going to arrest him. It’s all my fault.”

“Now, now, no need for tears,” said Agrippa. “Just tell me your story. It usually makes the condemned feel better. I love stories. Never get enough of ‘em. Another service I provide. Now go on, let’s hear it right from the beginning.”

Fabrizio told the details of his life, concluding by saying, “DeLaBina told the king it was my master who made the papers — magically. But I’m beginning to think DeLaBina doesn’t care about the papers. There’s something else. Only I don’t know what it is.”

“Wasn’t it the prince, not DeLaBina, who sent you here?” asked Agrippa.

“That’s true,” admitted Fabrizio. “I didn’t even say anything to him. I was just looking at him, hoping he would help me.”

“Maybe he wanted to get you out of that room.”

“He could have asked me to go,” said Fabrizio. “I’d have been happy to leave.”

“Ah! But the dead can’t proclaim their innocence, can they?”

“Does that mean you won’t kill me?” asked Fabrizio.

The executioner shook his head. “God made men. Men make laws. Isn’t that what life is all about?”

“Or death,” Fabrizio felt obliged to say. “But you don’t seem to understand: If something happens to me, things will go badly for my master. I’m supposed to protect him, and he’s about to be arrested.”

“The magician?”

Fabrizio nodded, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

Agrippa leaned forward and tapped the boy on his leg. “Tell me, by any chance, did that master of yours teach you some magic?”

“I was just learning,” said Fabrizio.

“It’s a start.”

Suddenly, Fabrizio said, “I really shouldn’t — my master would not be pleased — but I could show you some magic … for an extra hour of life.”

“I could do that,” said Agrippa.

Remembering what Mangus had done at his performance, Fabrizio rolled back the sleeves of his tunic to show nothing was hidden. He showed the backs of his hands. He extended his right hand to show it empty, too. With a quick wave of his left hand, he made it appear as if a few coins dropped out of Agrippa’s nose.

“Bravo!” said the executioner with grinning delight. “Milking people’s noses for coins. A lovely way to become rich! Show me some more.”

“Another hour?” asked Fabrizio.

“Agreed.”

Fabrizio, recalling the images in Mangus’s magic book, showed an empty hand, before making some coins appear and disappear.

“Wonderful!” said Agrippa. “If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d say you had a great future. Why don’t you teach me? An excellent way for me to entertain my guests.”

“If I did, would you let me escape?”

“Can’t.”

“What about four more hours?” countered Fabrizio. “That would give you” — Agrippa counted on his big
fingers — “an extra six hours to live. Just realize that in the end, it all comes to the same thing.”

“Fine.” Fabrizio was just about to turn one coin into another when a loud knocking burst upon the door.

“Boy!” cried the executioner. “Prepare yourself for death!” As he opened the door, Fabrizio fell to his knees and began to murmur frantic prayers.