Dave Duncan - The Alchemist's Code

“Ah, well according to Raymbaud, the technique was very ancient, long predating Islam. The invocation is in Sahidic Coptic, the language of the Pharaohs, and he claimed that the ritual was devised by the embalmers to ask the dead’s permission to prepare their corpses. That sounds unlikely, but a technique for interrogating the recently dead would have been very useful to the Templars when they were defending the Holy Land from desert marauders. If a patrol gets massacred and you can invoke their spirits soon enough, you can ask them who did it, or ask the dead brigands who sent them.”

I shuddered. “Necromancy!”

He blinked with childish innocence. “Not if you define necromancy as the ancients did. The learned Strabo, for instance, relates necromancy to divination and the Chaldeans-”

“Tell me tomorrow, while we’re waiting for the torturers to finish their dinner break.” I was still fidgeting, unable to sit. “What else do we need?”

He peered at the manuscript again. “There are only six appurtenances named but there must be seven. What’s missing?”

The list of ingredients was about the only thing I had managed to decipher. “Salt.”

“Ah, of course! Go and bring some.”

I went out and locked the door behind me, for the Head was in full view. Vasco was still draped like a discarded cloak on the couch. He knew we were up to something but were not about to let him find out what, and he just scowled when I told him we would be some time and he should curl up and catch some sleep. I purloined a nugget of salt from the kitchen and returned to the atelier. The Maestro had moved to one of the green chairs, which I had earlier arranged a safe distance back from the table, facing our elderly accomplice, the Head.

“Put it between the iron and the wood,” he said. “Now read off the appurtenances.”

I named the seven objects I had arranged around the Head: “Iron, salt, wood, amber, cinnabar, copper, and gold.” All of those have been appreciated as having magical virtue since the most ancient times, of course.

“Now light the incense.”

Seven sticks of incense stood in holders around the Head and the ring of appurtenances. I pointed at each in turn and it began to smoke.

He said, “Now I shall…Ah, the hair!”

“Hair?”

“Hair. You must relate the Baphomet to the spirit you wish to invoke, or you might call the wrong one. Fortunately in this case we have a lock of Dolfin’s hair. I put it in the small implements drawer for safekeeping.”

An attending physician stealing a lock of a cadaver’s hair seemed perilously close to desecration of a body to me, but we were well outside moral law already, so I said nothing as I obediently fetched. Just the sight of that blond tress lying there, tied with a ribbon, appalled me. I said a silent prayer of apology to Danese as I followed the Maestro’s directions and draped it over the Head.

“Now!” he said. “Hand me the bell. Sit. Not so close. Now, I shall read the invocation. When the seventh stick has gone out, you will have a few seconds to ask your questions.”

“Me?”

“He knew you better. You should be allowed three and only three questions, but have a couple of extras ready just in case. Find out the murderer’s name and where he lives. Do not pry into matters that do not concern you in this life.”

“No.” I expected to discover those for myself fairly soon.

“Ready?”

“Ready, master.”

He began reciting the Coptic, taking it slowly but rarely stumbling. Repeatedly he mentioned Baphomet, although the way he said it made it sound more like a command than a proper name. After a few lines he rang the handbell once and the first incense stick I had lit stopped smoking. I shivered. A few more lines and he rang twice. The second stick…

The first time in my life that my hair ever genuinely stood on end was after the final, seventh, flame extinguished. There was an awful moment’s pause and then the Head spoke. Yes, a voice emerged from the gaping mouth, soft but unmistakably Danese Dolfin’s sonorous, unforgettable bass scraping at my nerves.

“Who summons me back to this world of sin?”

I swallowed hard on a throat as dry as salt. “I, Alfeo Zeno, do.”

“Alfeo Zeno, why do you dare disturb the passage of my soul?”

“To avenge your murder.”

“Avenge? Or revenge? Would you have me sin even in death?”

How typical of Danese to argue from beyond the grave, even if he wasn’t buried yet. I wiped my damp brow and put the first question. “Danese Dolfin, who killed you?”

The Head moaned as if in pain. “Leave me, leave me!”

“Answer, I command you! Who killed you?”

He sighed and whispered, “Mirphak.”

“What is his real name?”

“Francesco Guarini.”

I heard the Maestro sigh happily. His third bowstring had found the target.

I asked my third question. “Where does Francesco Guarini live?” For a long moment I thought I would receive no reply but then Danese’s voice came again, very faint, as if from a great distance.

“Above the magazzen in San Giorgio in Alga.”

Got him! With both a name and an address, even the Signori di Notte could catch him, let alone the Ten.

“And by what words is he commanded?”

Silence.

“Again I order you to answer! What words command Francesco Guarini?”

This time I heard a sound no louder than a passing mosquito. I said, “What?” several times and tried a few more questions, but nothing more happened. I whispered, “Requiescat in pacem.” The seance was over.

The bell jangled as the Maestro laid it on the floor beside his chair.

“Very satisfactory!” he said. “Before dawn, you will go to San Giorgio in Alga and arrest Francesco Guarini. Bring him back here and I will serve him to Ottone Gritti for his prima colazione.”

“I have no authority to arrest anyone.” Especially not on that testimony.

“But you have the word to command him. Didn’t you hear it?”

“Mirphak?” I said. “Mirphak and Algol? Should I bring in Sirius, Polaris, and Vega also?”

“Keep a look out for all sorts of trouble. You will have the vizio with you!” The Maestro chuckled as he heaved himself to his feet. “Be very careful. He is dangerous.”

“Which is? Or do you mean both?”

“Guarini is. Vasco isn’t, not now.”

A s the eastern sky began to brighten on a chilly Sunday morning, Giorgio was rowing me south across the wide Canale della Giudecca, which is the main shipping channel separating the city from the long string of islands called the Giudecca. Giudecca is known for great palaces and playgrounds of the very rich, so I am not as familiar with it as I should like to be. Cool or not, the morning was spectacular. Light danced on the ripples like fireflies and ever-hopeful seagulls floated by overhead, eyeing us for signs of imminent garbage ejection. The city seemed to stand on its protecting lagoon and the first rays of sunrise were giving the tops of the Alps a good-morning kiss

Beside me in the felze sat the vizio, huddled in his cloak, grumpy and sleep deprived. I was in no better shape, for we had had an epic row over sleeping arrangements. He had refused to let me sleep in my own room, because he knew about the other way out of it. I had refused to let him lock me in the spare bedroom. In the end we had both slept on couches in the salone with the lamps lit. Then I had wakened him at an iniquitous hour, saying I was going sightseeing in San Giorgio in Alga, did he want to come?

For once I was glad of his company, since I did not share the Maestro’s cheerful confidence that I could persuade a murderer to accompany me back to Ca’ Barbolano for a cozy breakfast with a state inquisitor. Just having Filiberto Vasco with me would give me many times the impact I would have by myself, although I could not see him providing any practical assistance unless I told him why I wanted this unknown Francesco Guarini, and that I was most certainly not about to do.