Dave Duncan: The Alchemist's Code

“How soon?” the woman demanded, rising.

“An hour, maybe two. I will send sier Alfeo with news as soon as I have some.”

T he Maestro’s infirmity excuses him from excessive formalities. Normally I show his visitors out and am tipped a soldo or two for my pains. I rely on those tips. At the end of my seven-year apprenticeship Nostradamus will pay me my accumulated salary of seventeen ducats, but until then he provides only food, shelter, and a minuscule clothing allowance. In this case he had revealed my rank, so I had to behave like a noble, bowing low to Sanudo at the top of the stairs, waiting to exchange bows again when he reached the first landing, then going out on the balcony to bow farewell as they departed in their gondola. And no tip.

And only one gondolier? Most rich folk employ two boatmen, one fore and one aft. Of course good servants are hard to find and if the Sanudos had only recently opened their home in Venice, they might still be building up their household.

I went back into the atelier, where Nostradamus had disappeared into his chair again. He was thinking, tugging his beard, but not so lost in thought that he was unaware of my return.

“How did you happen to know the woman’s name?”

I explained. He frowned when I mentioned Eva’s brother, Nicolo, the publisher.

“The girl…You cavort with girls of that age. What do you think?”

I folded my arms, not presuming to sit unless told to. “Master, I am much too old to interest girls of that age and have been for at least a month, but I’ll bet your thousand ducats to a soldo that she went down that ladder of her own free will and they know it.”

He scowled, well aware that I was right. “Why do you say that?”

“Because they waited until noon to come and consult you. Because they did not bring clever brother Giro with them. Because Zuanbattista did not run straightway to the Council of Ten. He doesn’t want the other geriatrics laughing at him, but surely that means that he believes his daughter is in no real physical danger. You noticed he accepted your definition of ‘unharmed’? You are not required to restore her maidenhead by magic.”

“Do not be salacious!” Filippo Nostradamus is a prude.

“It’s what he meant, though. They had a splendid marriage in view and Grazia prefers someone half the bridegroom’s age.” That seemed certain as holy writ. “The matter is urgent financially. The rich fiance will call it off if he learns she has wallowed in another man’s bed.”

“You spend too much time at the theater watching hackneyed plays.”

“Hackneyed because they are based on life, and life keeps singing the same old songs.”

Few masters permit such back talk from their apprentices. Nostradamus enjoys it because it gives him an excuse to snarl and snap at me, although he would never admit that. “And in this romantic drama of yours, whose side is her mother on?”

What had he seen that I hadn’t? “She wants no scandal, doesn’t she? And her daughter back?”

“So she says.” He smiled wickedly. “Her own husband must be twice her age, even now, and was three times as old when they were married. Suppose she doesn’t want to see her daughter put through what she was put through? Who did you say was holding the ladder?”

I humbly admitted I had not seen that possibility. “And she aided her daughter’s escape by talking her husband into coming to you instead of initiating a proper pursuit?”

That suggestion made him scowl. “Then she may be surprised.”

“I’ve heard you say that you’ll never take another elopement case.”

Scowl became snarl. “Nicolo Morosini was a friend of mine.”

No. Tiny Venice is the greatest book publishing city in Europe, and two men especially made it so-Aldus Manutius and Nicolo Morosini the elder. Both are long dead, but Nicolo’s family maintained his interests and a younger Nicolo had seemed likely to surpass his great-grandfather. On the very first day of my apprenticeship, a man with a nose like the ram on a war galley had come calling on the Maestro to show him some books. Needless to say, I have not forgotten a moment of that day, and I well remember how the two men argued over the value of some manuscripts while I stood in a corner, supposedly grinding rock salt in a mortar, but mostly listening openmouthed as they so casually batted incredible prices at each other over crumbling wads of paper.

They had behaved far more like rivals than friends, so the Maestro was rearranging his memories to suit his present needs. The thousand ducats must have been irrelevant, because he did not mention it. Instead he said, “What is your logic on the missing Girolamo?”

“That he is still hunting for the unknown lover. They know who he is and they wasted half the morning trying to find him. I expect Giro is over in Cannaregio watching the gondolas leaving for Mestre. Aunt Fortunata is no doubt pacing the Molo, keeping her beady eye on ferries to Chioggia.”

The Maestro nodded. “Not bad thinking, Alfeo.” From him that was ardent praise. “Give me an hour. But no more! I know the minute my back is turned you will be plunging into lechery with that harlot of yours.”

“In a whole hour I should be able to plunge several times,” I said, making him pout at my continuing salacity. What he was really doing was giving me permission and orders to find out what more Violetta knew about the Sanudo family. He would deny that, of course, although he knows that she will never betray my confidence.

“She’s been away, may not be back yet,” I said wistfully. Sunday’s negotiations at the theater had borne fruit in the form of a new patron, a wealthy commoner named Agostino Buranello, who had whisked her off to Padua on Wednesday so he could flaunt her at a wedding. I had been trying not to think about how she must be suffering.

Nostradamus rose and hobbled over to the slate-topped table that holds the big globe of rock crystal. I saw him settled on the stool, lit the lamp, closed the shutters, and left him staring into the crystal. I locked the atelier door behind me. The salone was filled with mouth-watering odors, but a thousand ducats carries a lot of weight. I headed for my room.

Mama Angeli rolled out of the kitchen to accost me. Mama is too good to be true and works hard to remain so. She is also larger than life, always seeming as if about to give birth to twins or triplets, which she does at frequent intervals, and she is a magnificent cook, a rarity in the Republic. The Maestro tolerates the cost of feeding her enormous family because he thereby retains the services of her husband Giorgio, our gondolier, plus a whole army of odd-jobbers. Six or seven young Angeli were leaking out of the kitchen behind her, curious to know who the fancy guy had been and what their employer was up to this time.

“You haven’t eaten dinner yet!” she said in tones normally reserved for pronouncing death sentences.

My stomach responded in the same key. “I know,” I added. “I am fasting for the good of my soul.”

“ You? You could starve to death a hundred times on your sins.”

“I need to make room for a few more. The matter is urgent, Mama.” I did not move away, because I sensed she had some problem to discuss.

She pouted. “Vettor was here. He is going to marry that girl!”

“Giacomina? A wonderful choice! She’s a Virgo, which means purity and service.”

Mama added more grooves to her pout. “Her dowry is only twenty-seven ducats!”

“But the children she will give him!”

That was better, yet Mama’s eyes still gleamed suspiciously. “Children?”

“Many, many children. But he must marry her soon, while Venus is in the house of Leo. I’ll work out the best possible day for the wedding so she will bear sons. If they wait until the moon reaches conjunction with the Pleiades, then it will be daughter, daughter, daughter…”