The Alchemist's Pursuit (10 page)

Violetta and I had halted, of course.

“Says who?” I demanded, just to remind him that his authority came from much higher levels. His even larger smirk told me at once what was coming.

“Why, the Council of Ten, of course. Are you going to cause me trouble, Alfeo?”

“Why should I? You've never caused me any.”

Violetta gave my arm a warning squeeze.

“I was instructed to tell you, boy, that you are to stop meddling in things that do not concern you. And that goes for that mountebank, Nostradamus, also. Tell him so. Now go away. And behave yourself, or it will go hard with you.”

Since he and I attended the same fencing class, I knew I was a better fencer than he was. I admit I felt a momentary temptation to prove it with my rapier, right then and there, which would have been a wonderful treat, but one leading to a quick appointment with the headsman's ax. I regretfully decided to behave myself.

“What things, specifically,
sbirro
?”

His smile was intended to show that my insults were childish and he would settle them later. “Don't pretend to be stupider than you really are, Alfeo.”

“Oh, you mean the Ludovici robbery?” I asked, in the hope that he might mention some cases I hadn't heard about yet.

“I mean any criminal matter at all. The magistrates enforce the law, not you. Go. I shan't warn you again.”

There was nothing more to say. No one can argue with the Ten. They never answer questions, never explain, and there is no appeal from their decisions. I turned and walked away with Violetta and all the dignity I could muster, trying not to trip over the tail between my legs. Vasco stalked along behind us to see us off, whistling a cheerful tune.

Giorgio emerged from his shelter, noticing my fury but keeping his face diplomatically inscrutable. It wasn't until he'd rowed us well out of the
vizio
's hearing that he spoke.

“Where to?”

“Home!” I said. “We have been forbidden to meddle.”

“Does that mean they've caught the devil?”

I always warn him when whatever I'm up to may be dangerous, so he knew who we were after.

“No.” I glanced at Violetta and she nodded agreement. “It means they're protecting him.”

A
fter dropping off Violetta at the watergate of Number 96, I found the Maestro in his favorite chair, comparing two manuscript copies of a work by al-Kindi, the ninth-century philosopher who may be better known to you as Abu Yusuf Ya'qub ibn Is-haq ibn as-Sabbah ibn 'omran ibn Ismail al-Kindi. This was a bad sign, because it probably meant that he had been taking his mind off his sore hips and the Strangler both.

I reported.

“Can't fight the Ten,” he growled. He detests arbitrary authority. It often provokes him into mulish defiance, which would be grievous folly in this case.

“And since Matteo must have told the
sbirri
about Honeycat,” I said angrily, “and the Ten has records on everyone going back three hundred years, they must know who he is by now. He's a noble and they're protecting him!”

Nostradamus shrugged his narrow black-clad shoulders. “That depends how many people knew him by that name, but you are likely right. What matter if the Ten have forbidden us to investigate these murders? The state investigates crime, certainly, but it is every citizen's duty to prevent one. The Ten cannot object if we seek to prevent a murder that hasn't happened yet.” He sighed. “Pass me my canes.”

“If you are serious about preventing a murder,” I said, “you could summon a much more effective assistant than me.”

He scowled. “Not yet. Later, if we must.”

That made sense, because the second law of demonology warns that a demon will always try to cheat, betray, and deceive, no matter how securely it is bound according to the first law. Prevention of a murder would be an altruistic purpose and therefore permitted by the third law, but summoning can never be truly safe.

“What do I do next, then?” I demanded. I was as restless as a bluebottle. Catching a killer is serious work at any time, but catching one who is
going to
kill is much more stressful.

“Nothing. Now it is my turn.”

Massively relieved that he was going to bring his powers to bear on the problem, I gave the Maestro his canes and helped him rise. He crept across to the slate-topped table where he keeps the big crystal ball. I removed the red velvet cover, lit a candle, put chalk where he could reach it, and went to close the shutters on the blustery twilight outside. On the way back I grabbed a sheet of paper and a crayon from the desk.

“Anything else, master?”

“Yes. Go and feed. If I find anything you may be in for some strenuous activity this evening.”

 

 

Of course the Strangler might not be planning anything at all. He might have done all the killing he wanted, or still be tracking his next victim, or be languishing in the palace cells. Or not. I found that the Maestro's warning had left me with surprisingly little appetite and a strong desire for company—going one-on-one against a murderer always makes me feel lonely. One possibility was Vettor Angeli, Giorgio's eldest, who lives elsewhere and is a gondolier in his own right. Vettor's a good lad with a cudgel or fists, but to take him out against a vicious three-time murderer would not be fair. More appealing was the thought of Fulgentio. A ducal equerry from a wealthy family does have some status—not enough to deter the Ten from taking action against him, because nobody has that security, not even the doge himself—but enough to make them prefer not to. He had been on his way to the palace that morning, so he ought to have finished his watch now and be home or on his way there.

I scribbled a note to him, telling him to bring the foils and masks over, and his sword as well, just in case. That would be enough to fetch him. Having sealed the note with a scrap of wax I keep in my bedroom, I sent it off to Ca' Trau in the hot and grubby hand of thirteen-year-old Archangelo Angeli, much to his delight and the vexation of the twins, who would undoubtedly lie in wait to mug him for his reward when he returned. Only then did I stalk into the kitchen to see what Mama might have lying around uneaten.

 

 

An hour after I had left the Maestro, I peeked into the atelier. He was still staring into the crystal, which made strange lights dance on his face; his hand was moving jerkily, as if the chalk were directing it instead of the other way around. Normally he writes with his left hand, but in trances he uses his right and never remembers afterward what he has seen or has written. I went to fetch a bottle of wine and a glass. Tiptoing, I put them by the red chair and then departed as quietly as I could, although he was totally engrossed in what he was doing.

Fulgentio arrived a few minutes after that, burdened with two foils and his sword, followed by a grinning Archangelo carrying two fencing masks. Fulgentio and I practice together quite often, although only rarely at Ca' Barbolano. The Angeli pack gathered around excitedly and muttered in angry disappointment when I ushered him into my room and closed the door.

“Why my sword?” he demanded. “You feeling suicidal?”

“Three courtesans have been murdered in the last three weeks. Haven't you heard?”

He stared at me narrowly. He has backed me up a few times and knows what it is like to play for the top stakes. “It's the talk of the town. There's muttering about a fourth, but that's not confirmed. Nothing's confirmed.” He grinned. “Blank looks all round. And don't waste your breath asking me if the Ten are looking into it. I'd assume so, but even
Missier Grande
may not know for sure.”

“I know for sure.” I savored his startled expression for a moment before explaining about the
vizio
's message. “It sounds to me as if the Ten know who did it and are protecting him.”

Fulgentio drew his sword and tossed it on the bed. “If you're planning to defy the Ten, my friend, you'll do it alone. They say the galleys are quite fun in summer, but when it snows—”

“The Maestro is trying to foresee the next murder.”

That startled him. “And stop it? Tell you how to stop it? Can you stop a foreseeing?”

“Not if that would create a paradox. But if we were there to see it happen, we could make sure there would be no more. And if the Maestro foresees an
attempted
murder, then we could fulfill that prophecy.” My turn to grin. “Don't get too excited. We have no special reason to think that tonight's the night. Let me go and see what the old devil has produced this time.”

Another glance into the atelier revealed the Maestro slumped over the crystal, exhausted. Clairvoyance always smites him with a fearful headache. Between us, Fulgentio and I helped him to the chair by the fireplace. I poured him a glass of wine and he took it in shaky hands.

“What'd I see?” he demanded as he usually does.

“Haven't looked yet,” I said.

I went to the slate table, where Fulgentio was already staring at the quatrain.

“This is meant to be writing?” he whispered.

“This one happens to be surprisingly legible and coherent,” I said, “which is usually a sign that it deals with something imminent. Wait a moment.”

In a minute or so I had it deciphered:

 

“And what does all that mean?”

“Another murder, I think.”

“Man of blood?”

“Honeycat, likely. But Honeycat is a strangler, so there's other violence involved.” With luck it would be my rapier disabling the monster so that
Missier Grande
could come and cart him away to justice.

“Three saints?”

“That's a puzzler. Go ask Giorgio. He knows every brick and door in Venice.”

Fulgentio strode out. The Maestro mumbled something.

I went across and crouched, “What?”

“Tomorrow. ‘When' is tomorrow.”

“So it is! But where is ‘where'?” No answer. “You want me to call Bruno?”

He grunted agreement, so I went and fetched our porter, who carried the old man to his room. Between us we put him to bed. This was the worst rheumatic attack I had known Nostradamus to suffer, and it raised the horrible prospect that he might soon be unable to walk at all.

By that time Fulgentio was giving Corrado a fencing lesson at the far end of the
salone
, to an accompaniment of massed jeering from the boy's assembled siblings. Mama was watching with eyebrows at half-mast, because the sword is the weapon of either the gentleman or the gutter bravo, and she does not want any of her sons to have anything to do with it. I edged around to Giorgio.

“Three saints?”

“It's a tough one.” He scowled like a man caught out in his professional expertise. “Two saints are common enough. Or a gang of them hanging around on the outside of a church, fine. But exactly three—the church of San Trovaso is on the Rio San Gervaso e San Protasso. That's the best I can think of.”

“Possible. Keep thinking.” I couldn't recall any grass around San Trovaso.

I went back to the fencing lesson.

“Let me revenge your shame,” I told Corrado, and took foil and mask from him. Then I went to guard against Fulgentio and got thoroughly whipped, suffering four hits in a row. My mind was on more serious things, you understand, and fortunately it came up with an answer in time to justify my inattention. I threw down my foil and tugged the mask off.

“The Piazza itself!” I told him. “The two columns on the Piazzetta? The saints on top are San Teodoro and San Marco, right? And the church of San Geminiano at the far end of the Piazza, facing the Basilica! That makes three.”

Fulgentio was still protesting about grass as I dragged him and Giorgio downstairs. I had wrapped myself in my winter cloak and, needless to say, we wore our swords and daggers. We took an armful of torches, for the moon had already set behind the rooftops.

Venice is built like an ants' nest of narrow, twisting alleys and canals because of the wind—corners and turns slow down the gusts. But when we emerged onto the choppy Grand Canal, we took the full brunt of the storm, and rain had begun. Huddled in the
felze
with Fulgentio, I explained my reading of the quatrain.

“It's really two statements. The first line tells you when, and that's after a day that was once holy and now isn't, at least not to us. Tomorrow is Saturday, which is the Jewish Sabbath. Our Christian holy day is Sunday, so we no longer keep Saturday as holy. Got that?”

“This's still Friday.”

“I know. The Jews start their days at sunset, so their Sabbath has begun.”

“And we look for a friar, who is holy in firelight but murders in shadow?”

“You're coming along nicely, lad. Yes. The second line tells us that three saints are watching where the man of blood will strike. May they help us!”

“Amen!” Fulgentio said. “But what's ‘blind vengeance'? Does that mean that we kill the wrong man?”

I had no answer to that. “Let's start by finding three saints and grass.”

Giorgio rowed us across the Grand Canal and into lesser but more sheltered ways. We disembarked behind the Old Procuratie, and I told him to go home and help Mama pigeonhole the children. Fulgentio and I walked through the arch to the north side of the Piazza. The smaller Piazzetta, abutting the Grand Canal, is normally closed in the evening for the nobles'
broglio
, but that night it was deserted. The great square itself was as bare, and the only lights came from torches. No one would dare light a bonfire on such a night, lest it burn down the Doges' Palace. Hawkers, pedlars, musicians had vanished and merrymakers were in short supply.