Carl Sargent - Black Madonna

Flourishing the insignia of His Majesty’s Government and announcing himself as Lord Llanfrechfa got Geraint past the clerks and paper-pushers faster than he’d hoped. He found himself, with Michael, seated across a desk from someone who gave every appearance of being quite a senior functionary in the Doge’s Office of Works. The office was, after all, barely ten meters from the sala dei tre capi, the chamber of the Doge’s Council heads, and proximity to such exalted men was a reasonable sign of seniority and influence.

“So what can I do for Your Lordship on this happy day?” the man asked with the unforced good humor of someone who’s been told he’s getting the afternoon off as public holiday.

“I represent His Majesty’s Government,” Geraint said with due ceremony. “We are most interested in the reports dealing with pollution of the canals and lagoon of the city. If I may say so, judging from this and my past visits, Venice is more beautiful and cleaner than I have ever seen it.”

The man was obviously pleased to see that Geraint was, apparently, a regular visitor, and he seemed to bristle with a certain pride.

“Well, we like to think so,” he said cheerfully.

“His Majesty’s Government is most interested because we have similar problems with rising pollution levels in the Thames, which flows past our own seat of government just as waters flow around the palace here,” Geraint continued.

“Well, this is a global problem,” the clerk said, his brow furrowing a little. “I have had calls from as far away as San Francisco about this matter.”

“Indeed,” Geraint replied evenly. “Well, His Majesty would be most delighted to learn of any help you could provide regarding this remarkable and fascinating success. Naturally, my government would be only too ready to remunerate the Doge for such expert consultation and assistance.”

“That would be in the normal course of events,” the clerk said, smiling slightly.

“We had heard,” Geraint said, his voice dropping a little, that remarkable developments in magical techniques were involved, Naturally, we would not pry into such matters.”

“Naturally.”

“However, we have heard of work with water elementals.”

“You have?” the man said innocently.

“We have indeed,” Geraint said a little more strongly.

“Well,” the man said slowly, “I would like to help you. I myself read history at your university of Oxford, you know.”

Gotcha, Geraint realized with utter joy. The Oxford-Cambridge university cabal and old-boy network had a potency all but unequaled in the history of European civilization.

“Ah! Your college?”

“Balliol,” the man said with some pride.

“My private secretary is a Balliol man,” Geraint said authoritatively, “and so is my boss. I’ve dined there many times. Well, well.”

“I must ask you to respect confidences,” the man said, his manner more businesslike but still cheery.

“I can absolutely assure you that-”

“Very well” the man cut in. “It’s going to be obvious before very long so I think I can trust you, Lord Llanfrechfa.” He then looked at Michael rather pointedly.

“Ah. my friend. He is my traveling personal secretary,” Geraint lied. “And, of course, the very soul of discretion.”

Michael did a splendid job of looking blank but alert. “Unfortunately, Lord Llanfrechfa, I cannot help you because I do not know how the work was done,” the man said apologeticaily.

“Is there someone-”

Again he was anticipated. “I regret not. You see, no one really knows. This man came to us and said he could help with the problem of pollution. Of course, we thought he was just a, em, a time-waster. We have paid magicians for many years to deal with it, and the pollution simply returns time and time again. So we took no notice of him.”

“And then?”

“The following day, this was only last Wednesday, the man brought us a tray of bottles that he claimed were samples of water from the lagoon, the Grand Canal, and half a dozen tributaries. At first we ignored him, but then we had them tested. We were astounded by the results, so we sent our own people to conduct some tests. They confirmed that the pollution levels had fallen by an average of sixty-two percent. By Friday, the pollution levels were down to ten per cent of what they had been only three days before. The Doge’s magicians confirmed that there was intense elemental activity throughout the canal system of our city. A small group of our magicians attempted to conduct a ritual to investigate the exact nature of this activity and its source.” The man paused.

“And?”

“They are expected to be in the hospital for some time.”

“Good heavens!”

“We are astounded,” the man said simply. “Our fellow did not even give a name.”

“You must have a picture of him, surely?” Geraint insisted, as gently as he was able.

“Incredibly not. Of course, when we came here he was filmed by the security cameras.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Unfortunately, the films did not, ah, turn out correctly.”

He decked into their system and deleted everything, Michael thought. Obviously, this man doesn’t want to tell us that. It’s tantamount to saying that the Doge’s Matrix system was taken to bits. Not something a city functionary will want to admit.

“But you saw him,” Geraint said. “What did he look like?”

“That is the extraordinary thing. Everyone’s description is subtly different. It is as if, somehow, everyone saw a different refraction of light from one facet of a prism. Everyone saw something slightly different.”

The metaphor struck Michael at once. How apt, he thought: an optical metaphor for our Leonardo-freak.

“There is a general picture that emerges, though. He is tall, with long gray hair, balding at the front, and he is fairly lean. It is very strange, though, that no one can agree on his age. Some think he was old, others that he seemed fairly young.

“And he was seen with someone else in his company and the witnesses do at least agree on that… with a young man, with long fair hair tied in a pony-tail. This is not an unusual fashion in certain Italian states,” he said with faint disapproval.

Blondie, Michael thought. It sounds like the man who saved Serrin back in Florence.

“And the man is still here?”

“Friday was the last day anyone saw him.”

“He was not tracked or traced?”

“I can assure you, Your Lordship, we had him followed. Unfortunately,” the man coughed with embarrassment-“it was somehow not possible to track him for any distance. Observers seem to have become confused and disoriented. And after the unfortunate business with the magicians, ritual magic was not deemed a wise approach.”

“I can certainly appreciate that.” Geraint smiled sympathetically. “Well, I hardly think you are at fault. This extraordinary fellow sounds as if he would have eluded the best efforts of His Majesty’s finest.

The reassurance seemed to make the man a little less unhappy, if not exactly cheerful.

“Well, I must thank you for your time, signor,” Geraint said. “I very much appreciate your frankness. You have saved me and my govermnent much time. Should this man ever return, I would be delighted to be informed. I hope that you will allow me to send you a small token of my esteem and gratitude when I return to London. I really do appreciate your openness and honesty.”

He meant it. The man had revealed a state of affairs that might, indeed, have become obvious sooner or later. But with so little time left to them, it had to be sooner and his honesty might just save them enough time to find their quarry before the world’s computer systems crashed.