Dave Duncan - The Alchemist's Apprentice

“Or row a galley,” Christoforo added, “single-handed.”

“No. I need you to find Doctor Isaia Modestus for me. You know him?”

They both insisted that they did. They were not as certain as they pretended, but everyone in the Ghetto knows Isaia.

“He may be anywhere in the city,” I explained as the four of us trooped downstairs. “Start at his house; they’ll give you an idea where to try next. If you can find him, then I want one of you to stay with him, but keep the other one informed where he is, understand? And that one is to be at the gate of the Ghetto Nuovo when I get there, ready to lead me to the good doctor. Your father will probably have to wait for me at the Molo for some time, so you can report to him there if your quest takes you to that end of the city. Yes,” I added before they incurred Giorgio’s wrath by asking, “you will be richly rewarded.”

“How much?” Corrado demanded eagerly, and this time failed to move his ear faster than the back of his father’s hand.

I n no other state in Christendom could I have walked into the ruler’s palace without having a pike or something worse thrust in my face, but no one challenged me as I mounted the steps of the watergate and strolled along the passage into the great courtyard. It was bustling, of course. There are always people going about the Republic’s business there, and I remained invisible among them. I climbed the censors’ staircase to the second story, walked along the loggia to the incredible golden staircase, and climbed the first flight of that. But that brought me to the door of the equerries’ hall, and there I did have to stop and explain myself.

Six old men were waiting ahead of me, all white-bearded, black-gowned messere, no doubt intent on paying their personal respects to His Serenity on the death of his friend. Three equerries were keeping watch on them from a polite distance, but my luck was holding, because one of them was my friend Fulgentio Trau. There was no sign of my jailer from the morning, old sier Aldo Somebody.

Fulgentio wandered over to meet me with a quizzical look in his eye. We live in the same parish, are the same age, and share the same fencing tutor. He has even been known to beat me with the rapier or epee. To be honest, he lucks out quite often, but not always. The main difference between us is not that I am a noble and he a commoner, but that I am church-mouse poor while his family has more money than the Pope. I cannot understand why he should want to be virtually a servant, but he insists it is more interesting than banking.

“I heard you spent the night here,” he murmured.

“Some of it. Nothing serious.”

“Nasty rumors going around about your master.”

“Nasty and unfounded.”

He nodded with a glance at my satchel. “I’ll try and get you in sometime before Judgement Day. Meanwhile you’ll have to sit here and not fidget.”

“They’ve changed the pictures. May I look?”

He brightened. “By all means. Come and tell me if you think this John the Baptist is really by Carpaccio.” A love of great art is something else we have in common.

Halfway around our circuit of the walls, he presented me to the equerry in charge-who looked all of eighteen-and explained that the doge’s doctor required me to deliver all medications directly to the patient but I wouldn’t need more than a minute. It does help to have influential friends. Three more black robes tottered in and were seated with the rest. Then another equerry entered by the inner door.

“That means he’s on his way.” Fulgentio led me in that direction. “He has his own staircase down from the Senate.”

“I do appreciate this,” I said. “I’d have been there for hours. I hope those nine ancient worthies don’t make trouble for you.”

“They can’t. He has to change his clothes before he sees anyone. You’re not anyone.” His grin held no malice.

“Thanks.” In fact, as the doge’s sometime masseur, I had seen him with no clothes on at all. He changes them several times a day and his choice of garb is always carefully noted. He can insult a nation by wearing the wrong socks when meeting with an ambassador. Fulgentio escorted me to the room I had visited that morning and departed with: “Jacopo will take care of you.”

Jacopo regarded me with distaste, knowing that I was not good for a tip. “His Serenity may be some time. How can I help you?”

“You can bring me supper later. Luckily I brought a book to read.”

Knowing which book that would be, he grimaced. I left it in my satchel and resisted the temptation to try one of the doge’s silk-covered chairs. The paintings on the walls were interesting compositions by artists I did not know. I was just edging my way to the nearest one when the doge marched in, monumental in gold state robes and corno.

He said, “Alfeo?” in surprise and turned his back on my bow. “You came to say goodbye?” He began rearranging his draperies. Jacopo waited, holding the ducal chamber pot at the ready.

“No, Your Serenity. But I brought the unguent you requested, and the book.”

“Leave them over there. Your master thinks he can defend himself against a charge of poisoning?”

“Yes, sire.”

I heard a familiar sound. His Serenity sighed happily. “How? The man had a stroke, that’s all. How can you prove a negative?”

“By proving a contrary positive. May I ask Your Serenity a couple of questions that may be vital to the security of the Republic?”

“And more likely are not. Ask.”

“You have met the attorney Ottone Imer?”

“Yes.”

“Offered a choice of refosco, malmsey, or retsina, which did you choose?”

Grunt. “I never drink retsina except with a certain friend I expected to see there. I knew he would choose it, so I did, for old times’ sake. We used to drink it together years ago during the Cyprus campaign. It still tastes like turpentine.”

“Yes, sire. That is the whole point.”

He had completed his business. Jacopo put away the chamber pot and began assisting him adjust his draperies. It was a few moments before the doge turned to scowl at me. “What are you blathering about, Alfeo?

“Could Your Serenity have switched glasses with your friend?”

“Mother of God!” The ruddy ducal complexion paled visibly. “He really was poisoned?”

“My master believes so.”

The doge sank onto a chair, official business forgotten. “What evidence has he?”

“His professional opinion, sire-his medical opinion.” Not something he had read in the stars, I meant. “He detected symptoms of a certain drug. That is why he asks if you might have accidentally switched glasses with the procurator.”

Nasone pondered for a moment. “I cannot swear we didn’t. We looked at some books together.”

“But you noticed no sudden change in the taste of the wine? You had no intestinal problems later, no irregular heart beat or excessive saliva?”

Mention a symptom to some people and they will at once imagine experiencing it, but Pietro Moro is the least suggestible of men, a human barnacle. “No. I hardly touched it before I spoke with Bertucci. When we had finished our discussion, I gulped down the rest and left.”

“Who could have known Your Serenity would be there?”

He leaned back and glared at me. Legally doges may be figureheads, but they usually get what they want. They do not appreciate being cross-examined by mere apprentices.

“Only Bertucci himself. This is your master asking all this, not just apprentice Alfeo Zeno wasting an afternoon to get out of honest work?”

“I am here by his leave and will report every word to him, I swear.”

He stared hard at me. “We are both liable to get in trouble over this, lad. We ought to be singing this song to the state inquisitors. And they may be a lot less gentle with you than they will be with me.”