Dave Duncan - The Alchemists pursuit

I had not put it there and the Maestro never would. I knew right away who had, but none of us had seen her do so. She could have laid it on the other chair, but there it would have been more conspicuous and her brother might have noticed it as he was leaving. Now I knew who was represented by the Popess in my tarot, bless her beads and wimple!

I carried my find over to a lamp and riffed through it. A few pages at the end were blank, but the rest was a diary of numerous short entries. I fancy myself as open-minded, but the very first one I read made my jaw drop.

Thursday, 7 th.

Chiara Q, dinner and theater, her house. Twice in bed on her back, once on a chair with her straddling him.

I won't quote any more of them. Some were much worse. They all followed the same pattern, a date without month or year, a woman's name, and then a note of the sexual actions and positions employed. In rare cases more than one woman was mentioned, and sometimes men also, although then only by Christian name. Many of the acts mentioned were obscene, some illegal, and at least one carries the death penalty.

The wonder was not that a nun had disposed of the book, but that she would even soil her fingers to throw it in the Grand Canal. Had she stolen it with the deliberate intent of delivering it to the Maestro? I could not imagine her daring to take it home to the convent.

Should I show it to him right away? That would be my normal reaction, but Circospetto might be going to show me the Ten's records on the case very shortly, and I might do a better job of understanding them if I had studied the book first. I took it to my desk, gathered lamps, and set to work.

Nowhere was the hero of the saga identified except by the male pronoun. I had never seen Zorzi's writing, but the hand looked nothing like the letters Domenico had forged, which had deceived donna Alina. I fetched out the Orio contract I had just filed and compared her signature with the book. Signatures are not the most reliable samples of handwriting, but the match was close enough to strengthen my suspicions. Since I had seen an identical book in the lady's treasure box, I had to assume that she had written the filth.

I had trouble imagining the most egotistical young toady regaling his mother with his prurient exploits and her paying him for it, but that was the only explanation that came to mind. How big a fortune had she squandered on her son's vice? What must her marriage have been like that she had resorted to such vicarious entertainment?

At first the entries were sporadic, as the hero took up the sport. After a few months' practice he had became a satyr, rarely missing a night, sometimes enjoying two separate women in different places-or possibly he had just become a more creative and convincing liar, although it's a rare man who can deceive his own mother. Besides, this sordid catalogue merely confirmed what Alessa had told me about his habits.

I had no way of proving that the book was genuine, but I soon established that it was at least relevant to our search. A few rare mentions of Saints' days instead of dates led me to a 1 Tuesday following a 28 Monday, and the universal calendar from our astrological bookshelf told me that I had found March 1586. As March 1 is New Year's Day in Venice, I marked the place with a piece of paper and went looking for 1587. I rapidly established that the record ran from the summer of 1584 to December 23, 1587. There it stopped, a few hours before Gentile Michiel died. The book was either an incredible hoax or it was extremely germane.

The last record consisted only of the name "Tonina Q" with no details, pornographic or otherwise. December 23 listed Caterina Lotto, who had apparently been an accomplished acrobat, but was doomed to be Honeycat's third victim, in spite of her fearsome guardian, Matteo Surian. That discovery prompted me to go back to the beginning and riff through, listing each woman's name and the date she first appeared. Venice is reputed to have ten thousand courtesans, but at the end Zorzi's catalogue listed only sixty-seven, which seemed a quite modest total for a healthy youngster with unlimited money and minimal morals, over a period longer than Scheherazade's thousand and one nights.

When I had reached the end I worked backward, noting the last time each name appeared. That took me longer, but it confirmed that some names were mentioned only once, others frequently. I did not have time to count the number of times each name appeared, but I could identify his favorites, which included all four of Honeycat's victims: Lucia da Bergamo, Caterina Lotto, Ruosa da Corone, and Marina Bortholuzzi. I also recognized the names of some highly regarded women whom Violetta had mentioned. Alessa appeared many times-she seemed to enjoy gondolas-but there was no mention of Violetta, to my heartfelt relief.

Four single-mentions and three favorites were identified only by Christian names, the favorites being Chiara Q, Lodovica Q, and Tonina Q. Recalling donna Alina's report of Zorzi defending a true love I noted that those might be the amateurs Domenico had mentioned, not courtesans-I could not bring myself to think of them as ladies, not in that company. Most of the seven bore unusual names, perhaps aliases.

Apart from gondolas, the scenery mentioned included chairs, tables, and floors; also haystacks, grass, stables, and a coach, all which must have been on the mainland.

At last we had the courtesan murders unarguably tied to Zorzi Michiel and in the morning we could start sending out warnings to any women Violetta and Alessa had missed. It was time for me to go. I checked that there was no light showing under the Maestro's door and left the book and my notes on his side of the desk. I added a note: The Popess left this for you on Sunday.

I hadn't done my dusting.

Again Giorgio rowed me to San Zulian. Normally I tell him what I am up to and the fact that I had not explained these midnight journeys was making him uneasy. Again I walked the deserted streets by feeble lantern light, for the moon was clouded over. This time I had only my shadow for company, not even a cat. Illogically, the fact that now I carried a fortune in gold under my shirt made me more nervous than before, as if thieves might somehow smell it from the shadows. I was actually happy to see the door with the grille. I was probably early and risked running into another scoundrel on a similar mission, but I had no intention of lingering outside any longer than I had to. I rapped the four-knock signal on the boards. Moments passed until I began to feel faint for lack of breathing, then a face appeared in the darkness behind the bars and I heard the bolt being drawn.

It was not until we were both in the room with the table that either of us spoke. As before, Sciara wore black and a sardonic, cadaverous smirk.

"Did you get it?" I asked, louder than I expected. The question was superfluous, because he had a coin balance waiting.

He stood with his fingers on the table, looking across at me with a fixed, catlike stare. "Of course, or you would not have been admitted. I warn you, though, that some documents seem to be missing."

"What isn't missing?"

He shook his head. "I cannot say and will not look to see. First you pay, then I let you examine whatever was in the folder when I retrieved it. I swear that I have not opened it or looked inside. There is something in there, but not as much as there should be. No argument. Pay now or go."

The terms were unconscionable and the moment I brought out the gold, then that mysterious second door might swing open and Missier Grande march in to arrest me. If Sciara was just cheating me and there was nothing of value in the folder, I should have no recourse except to poke my rapier through him, but that would be no solution and little satisfaction. If I refused to trade, more women might die. I reached for the pouch.