Dave Duncan - The Alchemist's Apprentice

Fortunately Father Farsetti keeps the ground by the church clear of ordure and garbage. I decided I was alive. Had I been alone and unarmed, the Maestro’s prediction would have been fulfilled exactly-it had certainly come close enough. Although my bruised knee had not hampered me at all in the battle, it was hurting a lot more than it had earlier. I reached down to rub it and discovered the vision had been closer to the fulfilment than I had realized. Fresh blood is always shockingly red, especially when it is one’s own. I had no memory of being wounded in the calf and no idea how it had happened. One of the men falling on top of me must have still been holding his knife when he landed.

Several voices were asking, “Alfeo?” and “You all right?”

The two closest were Pio and Nino Marciana from the casa, who had hauled the bodies off me and were now regarding me with worried expressions. Behind them Bruno was having silent hysterics because he had hurt people. Before I could answer, he saw that I was bleeding and uttered a wordless animal cry, one of the very few noises he makes. He swept everyone else aside, scooped me up in his arms, and charged into the jabbering, yelling crowd. Bodies flew in all directions. He crossed the campo like a runaway horse, into the Ca’ Barbolano and all the way upstairs to the Maestro, where he laid me on the desk. There is an examination couch in the corner, but he ignored that. Giorgio and a mob of descendants followed him in to see.

The Maestro laid his book out of harm’s way and examined my wound.

“Your calf is cut,” he said. “It’s not deep. Needs a few stitches, but no need to send for the barber. Giorgio, fetch my bag. Roll over, Alfeo.”

I sympathize with embroidery; being stitched hurts. I kept my mind off the pain and my undignified posture by trying to answer all the questions and explain what had happened without saying everything I was thinking. Who had reason to want me dead? The poisoner. Why? Because I knew his face. How did he know he had reason to want me dead? Because his demon had told him so. How had his bravos known I was in the church? Same answer.

Soon I was stitched and bandaged and set on a chair with my leg propped up on another. A fortifying glass of wine was thrust into my hand and the Maestro dispensed a spoonful of laudanum to soothe Bruno, for every attempt to hail him as a hero just upset him more. Mama herself washed my blood off the desk. My best hose were in rags and my shoe needed washing also.

The Maestro hates having more people in his atelier than he can keep an eye on. He ordered everybody out and I knew he wanted to have a serious talk with me, but the Republic does not approve of dead bodies lying around. The sbirri arrived, the local constabulary, four of them, led by Sergeant Torre the Unthinking. I find it very hard to keep my temper around Torre. He was quite capable of marching me off to jail for questioning, as if I were the culprit and not the victim.

Fortunately Torre had barely opened his mouth before another man appeared and took over- Missier Grande himself, the chief of police, whose red and blue cloak is the most feared sight in the Republic. Gasparo Quazza is a tall man with the solidity of a Palladio facade, and has been known to break up a riot with his mere presence. It is Missier Grande who carries out the orders of the Ten. He has the integrity and hardness of a diamond, a man of poor background raised to one of the highest offices in the Republic, which he serves without scruple or question. He will be the next Grand Chancellor when the present one dies or retires. He has never racked me yet. He would hate to rack me, I’m sure, but he will rack me if he has to; I’m sure of that also. He came close so he could stare down at me. He has a gray-flecked beard and wears the standard flat, circular biretta of any civic official.

I smiled up at him politely. “Who were they?”

“You tell me, Alfeo.”

“I don’t know who they were, Missier Grande.” Sometimes servility is the better part of valor.

“Why should anyone set an army on you? Six men?”

“I don’t know why, Missier Grande. I’m a good swordsman, but not quite that conceited. I was attacked without warning.” I was glad to hear Father Farsetti’s voice outside, and then see him walk into the atelier. His testimony of events would agree with mine and be accepted without argument.

“You were wearing your sword,” Missier Grande said. “You had your giant with you. You expected trouble.”

The Maestro intervened. “I foresaw it, Missier Grande. I ordered my apprentice to go armed today. I foresaw trouble.”

Quazza flashed him a look of disgust and me another. “So your defense is witchcraft?”

There he was speaking more to the audience than to me. Very early in my indenture, Quazza’s daughter was abducted. The child was recovered unharmed and the offender captured by a combination of the Maestro’s clairvoyance and some insanely brash juvenile derring-do by me. Unlike the doge, Missier Grande is no skeptic in occult matters.

“The attack was witchcraft,” I said. “How else did they find me? And how could six armed strangers assemble outside the church without attracting attention from the parish residents?”

Father Farsetti broke in angrily. “They had attracted attention, Alfeo. A dozen local men were loitering nearby, keeping an eye on them. It was Our Lady who saved you, not the Enemy.”

“Your lungs deserve credit also, Father.”

“But your neighbors deserve more, for noticing suspicious strangers and keeping watch on them. I will give you a chance to stand up and thank them in church on Sunday.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Quazza was still admiring my smile. I assumed that was what he was doing from the careful way he was studying me.

“Who knows where you will be on Sunday, Zeno? I have two dead men to explain to Their Excellencies. I have an apprentice wearing a sword and claiming he was forewarned by witchcraft. Perhaps I should call in the Holy Office?”

“Has not Bruno done the Republic a service today?” I asked. “Who were they?”

“Hired thugs,” Missier Grande admitted. “Common bravos.”

“From the Ponte degli Assassini, or the Calle della Bissa, I expect,” the Maestro remarked, sending me a smug look. Just east of the Rialto, the Bridge of Assassins and the Alley of the Serpent are the most sinister haunts in the city. Gold rains brighter than the eyes of the serpent. That was where one went to hire killers.

“Did they have gold in their pouches? How much was I worth?”

“Someone got to their pouches before I did.” Quazza glanced briefly in the direction of Torre and his band. “You may have been worth some silver to them, but not much while you are still alive, Alfeo Zeno. Dead, you would have brought them a second instalment. Dead or alive, it is not for you to hand out justice. A few days in the Leads will afford you protection against any second inexplicable attack and possibly refresh your memory of recent events.”

The sbirri in the background were leering. Father Farsetti was not. And neither was I, now. The threat was believable. Again I was saved by my master.

“You have two corpses, Missier Grande,” the Maestro said wearily, as if addressing a wilful child. “If you don’t know them personally, some of the sbirri will, or your own fanti. You can locate their associates and extract the name of the person who hired them. He is the one you want, yes? The problem is that they may not know his real name. No matter how much pain you inflict they may give you nothing more than a vague description.”

Missier Grande sensed an offer coming. He nodded. “Continue.”

“As it happens…You can walk, Alfeo?”

I carefully laid my left foot on the floor and pulled myself erect. I took a few steps. “The agony is indescribable, but I can hobble, master.”