Dave Duncan - The Alchemists pursuit

"This is an unexpected honor, Brother."

"Unexpected no doubt, my son, but no honor." This was an attempt at humility, but it needed work. "Tell your master I wish to see him."

When necessary I can obstruct and obfuscate with the best of them, giving the Maestro time to escape by the secret door, but I was confident that Nostradamus would want to see this pair. I swung the atelier door wide.

"Brother Fedele and Sister Lucretzia, master."

Fedele shot me an angry glance, perhaps annoyed that I had been meddling enough in his family's affairs to know his sister's name, but he did not deny it. He strode in, gown swirling above bare feet, and paused to look around disapprovingly at the wall of books, the alchemy bench, the examination couch, and other curiosities. The nun followed him in and he pointed at one of the spare chairs we keep on hand for larger groups, one of two behind the door, near the great armillary sphere. She went to it without a word. Then the friar marched over to the Maestro, who smiled up at him.

"I am suffering from reminders of mortality today, Brother. Pray excuse my failure to rise, and do be seated."

Fedele perched straight-backed on the edge of one of the green chairs. "I am sorry to hear of your infirmity, Filippo. I shall keep my visit brief."

I crept back to the desk, turning my chair slightly so I could also keep a corner of an eye on the nun, sitting off to my right, but she was motionless as a statue. I wondered how much her eyes wandered behind her veil.

The Maestro was on his best behavior. "Your visit is welcome. May I offer you refreshment?"

"Thank you, no."

"Won't you present me to your honored sister?"

"No. I am escorting her back to Santa Giustina and dropped in here on the way. You sent your apprentice to see my mother yesterday."

"I sent him to see your brother Bernardo."

"Why?" No, Fedele was not Old Testament. He was a martyr, and his emaciated, anguished features belonged on a crucifix or a triptych from some gloomy, sin-obsessed medieval monastery. He looked as if he had been fasting since midsummer on an exercise regime of three flagellations a day.

"To give him a message."

"Why?"

The normal response would have been, What message? The Maestro hesitated a moment before speaking.

"Because I considered it my duty."

"Or to extract money from my family by preying on their sorrow?"

"No."

"But you will accept money if it is offered?"

The Maestro gingerly eased himself back in his chair and then put his fingertips together, five on five, which normally indicates the start of a lecture.

"Who wouldn't?"

That was almost a demand for a sermon, and the friar rose to the bait.

"You would be well advised to, Filippo. I look around at all this unseemly display and remember the words of our Lord about the camel failing to pass through the eye of a needle."

"Ah, an interesting metaphor. According to the revered Bishop Theophylact of Bulgaria, there was a gate in the wall of Jerusalem so narrow that in order to take a camel through, you would have to unload all its burdens and-"

"Let us talk about your burdens, my son."

The Maestro cackled one of his irritating cackles. "Brother, I believe we are talking at cross-purposes. You have asked five questions. Now let me have a turn, and then we may understand each other better. You were sixteen or seventeen when your father was murdered, may Our Lord rest his soul. You would not have been present in the Basilica, but you were old enough to comprehend. Describe the wound that killed him."

The green chairs face the window so that the Maestro has a better view of visitors than they do of him. So do I if I am at the desk. The priest must have found the question outrageous, but he hid his revulsion well.

"He was stabbed in the back with a dagger. The wound penetrated his tippet and his kidney. He lost consciousness almost at once and died before he could be moved out of the church."

"The dagger belonged to your family?"

The response was quiet but intense. "Who told you that?"

The Maestro chuckled again, evidently intending to enrage the priest even further-angry men make mistakes. "The Ten did. Not in so many words, you understand, but they must have had reasons to conclude that your brother was guilty and if the weapon had been readily available to members of the family, that would be a compelling one. Right from the start I noted that as a plausible theory and your presence here reinforces my suspicion."

"What are you implying?" Fedele had lost color, which is more often a sign of anger than fear. Oh, what would San Francesco have said? And what was Sister Lucretzia thinking under her dreary draperies?

"I can understand," the Maestro said calmly, "that your family is reluctant to have old sorrows reawakened; I mean having your father's murder reexamined. Even so, I find your respective reactions excessive. Sier Domenico, a rich and no doubt busy nobleman, contrived to have a private discussion with my apprentice. Sier Bernardo, on the other hand, snubbed him in a way I would not treat a beggar. Today they send you and your sister to call on me. Very curious behavior!"

"No one sent me," the friar said grimly. "I came in charity to warn you. I admit that our mother has never accepted Zorzi's guilt. She always took his side and defended his sinful ways. But the Council of Ten judged him guilty and my brothers have suffered enough for his fearful crime. They are noblemen of Venice. If you attempt to embezzle money from her by preying on her delusions, then they will complain to the Council of Ten, which will run you out of town at the very least."

"Alfeo, how far along are you with that draft?"

"As far as, '… permitted under the laws of Venice,' master."

"Let the good brother read it."

I took the paper over to our visitor. He did not comment on my penmanship, but merely read it slowly and carefully, like a lawyer. When he lowered it, he was frowning. I carried it back to my desk.

"No money in advance," the Maestro said. "No money at all unless I produce evidence acceptable in a court of law. Those are always my terms, Brother."

He did not explain that he was less concerned with the guilt or innocence of Zorzi Michiel than he was with finding the killer of the courtesans. To suggest that a noble family might be involved in that sordid affair would terminate the discussion instantly. We would be in jail before sunset.

Fedele shook his head sadly. "Filippo, Filippo! You are accusing the Council of Ten of convicting an innocent man. I urge you for your own safety not to let your words get back to them. Perhaps you should discuss the sin of pride with your confessor?"

"Perhaps." Nostradamus did not sound convinced. "I have two more questions, if I may beg your patience, Brother. Suppose for a moment that Zorzi, your brother, did not commit that terrible crime. And yet also suppose that, despite his innocence, before fleeing into exile he wrote out a confession and slipped it into one of the 'Lion's Mouth' drop boxes for the Council of Ten to read."

"Absurd. Suppose the lagoon turns to wine."

"But my question is, who-in your family, in the city, in the whole world-might Zorzi have loved enough to shield in this way?"

The priest studied him for a moment with the basilisk stare of an icon. "My brother was about as far from a saint as it is possible to be, Filippo. He lived for lechery and debauch. He loved only his own carnal pleasure."

Nostradamus sighed. "Then my last question. Why did Giovanni Gradenigo ask for me when he was dying?"

The friar glanced momentarily across at his sister, then back at the Maestro. "I cannot tell you. I can assure you that he was very confused near the end."

"But when you wrote, you addressed the message to Alfeo, not to me. How did you know to do that?"