Dave Duncan - The Alchemist's Apprentice

“He can’t help you here. Send him away.”

I had arranged three signals with Giorgio: I-in trouble-go to-home, meant bad. Go to-home-come-later, was hopeful. Everything-is well-wait, was obviously inappropriate.

To Bruno I made the signs, Tell-Giorgio-go to-home. Bruno frowned and eyed the counselor. His deafness limits him, but he is far from witless and sometimes he seems to sense things by means that we more fortunate mortals cannot know. He did not want to leave me. I repeated my orders.

He signed, You-go to-Giorgio.

Stamp, point, wiggle two fingers, wave arm like an oar: No!-you-go to-Giorgio.

Point to chest, point to floor. I-stay.

Again I stamped my foot: No!

This time he nodded, to my great relief. Still obviously reluctant, he turned and headed for the door. I turned my attention back to Dona.

“State your business.”

“My master sent me with a message for the illustrious Raffaino Sciara.”

“Give me the message. If it is appropriate for him to receive it, I will see that he does.”

I was now in considerably worse trouble than I had been two days before. To defy a direct order from a state inquisitor would be insanity beyond the call of duty, and the Maestro would certainly not expect me to try.

“Your Excellency, my master, the learned Doctor Nostradamus, has evidence that Procurator Orseolo was murdered. He knows the name of the murderer. He instructed me to ask the secretary to arrange a gathering at the house of the learned Ottone Imer, at which my master will demonstrate how poison was administered to the procurator.”

“And whom will your master denounce?”

This was the problem. “I do not know, Your Excellency. He would not tell me.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

Icy water trickled down my ribs. “I swear it is the truth, Excellency.”

“Your master expects us to give him a free hand to slander anyone he fancies?” The old man made a gesture of impatience. “I will ask you once more. If you do not answer my question willingly, you will answer it unwillingly and at great personal cost. Who is your master accusing?”

“He would not tell me. Believe me, Your Excellency, I did ask him. I begged him to tell me. He would say only that he has very good reasons.”

“Take him away and teach him better manners.”

I turned. The guards who had brought me had been replaced by three very solid men in dark workmen’s clothing, and with them stood my companion of the previous day, Vizio Filiberto Vasco, our juvenile Caesar in his fancy red cloak.

Without any open sneering or gloating, he gestured for me to accompany him. He led the way, carrying a lantern, and I followed. More heavy footsteps and lanterns came behind.

When we reached the stairs, I said, “Wait! Where are we going?”

“You know very well where we’re going, Alfeo.”

“But he can’t do this, can he?” I could hear my voice growing shriller by the word. “Doesn’t he need a vote of the Ten, or at least another inquisitor’s approval?” There was an unreal quality about this experience. That I might be locked up until the Maestro came to apologize and explain had always been a risk, but we had never dreamed of extempore torture.

The vizio smiled mirthlessly. “All he needs is men to obey him, Alfeo. Do you want a sword point in your back or not?”

I did not. The stairs seemed shorter than I expected, but they could not have been long enough for me. The torture chamber is surprisingly large, but then it plays an important role in government. I looked around in despair.

Vasco was watching me. “Give him the tour, Carlo.”

One of the jailers said, “If messer would come this way…” I was appalled at how huge he was-he could not possibly have been as big as Bruno, but I was feeling unusually small. He conducted me around the room, courteously explaining the machinery for breaking, twisting, burning, choking, wrenching, dislocating, crushing. In truth, the entire collection seemed quite insignificant, just a bag of tools spread out on the floor; all that really mattered was the rope dangling in the center.

When the circuit was completed, I was back at the vizio. I knew he must see my shaking hands and hear my teeth clattering. No doubt the tormentors could tell exactly how long I would resist before I broke. And when I did I would not be able to tell them what they had been told to find out. I had to speak or go mad, even knowing that this was just evidence of my terror.

“You enjoy this part of your job?”

“No, I hate it,” Vasco said seriously. “I would enjoy watching you take forty or fifty strokes of the lash, Alfeo, but even you don’t deserve this. Fortunately I do not have to stay and watch what happens. As soon as you have been secured, I am free to go. Do you want to do it the easy way or the painful way? The easy way is much better.”

Coward that I was, I would do anything to postpone the start of pain. I took off my hat and handed it to the monster looming over me. Then cloak, doublet, shirt, until I was bare to the waist. He took them as politely as a valet, then turned and threw them down in a corner beside a bucket.

“You can keep your britches on,” Vasco said. “For now.” He pointed to the bucket. “You need to use that?”

To my shame, I did need to use that, and all four of them watched while I did so. Humble as a mouse, I crept back to the rope, where they waited for me.

“If messer will pardon…” The big torturer pulled my arms behind me and knotted the rope around my wrists and forearms, hauling my elbows together. The torture known as the cord, or strappado, is more feared than the rack. A man who denies his crime on the cord cannot be hanged for it afterwards. Since he will no longer have any use of his arms, that is a doubtful blessing, and one that cannot be earned very often.

A moment’s respite, then a pulley creaked and the rope began to tighten, raising my arms and bending my torso forward. My elbows could not bend at all at that angle, and my shoulders very little. When my head was level with my crotch and I stood on tiptoe, a voice said, “Tie it there.”

Vasco bent close to my ear. “Resist as long as you can,” he whispered. “If you give up too easily they won’t believe you, and then it’s terrible.”

He told Carlo to carry on, and left, taking his lantern. I was shaking harder than ever, teeth chattering uncontrollably. Cold was a part of that, but I was scared out of my wits and do not deny it. One of the torturers came close and clasped my shoulder with a callused hand.

“Strong one,” he remarked to the others. “We’ll need weights.” He gave me a playful slap on the buttocks. “Don’t go away. We’ll be back.”

They left and the door boomed shut.

I thought I was alone, but could not be certain. All I could hear was the crackle of the fire, a sound I had always considered cheerful until then. All I could see was the bucket and my tormented feet. The room bore an indefinable stench, no doubt stemming from centuries of every bodily secretion imaginable. The pain in my toes was already becoming unbearable, but any attempt to ease them threw more strain on my shoulders. When the real torment began, of course, they would raise me right off the floor, with or without weights on my feet, and with or without bouncing, whatever they chose.

The doge said, “You seem to be in trouble again, lad.”

I started, and gasped aloud at the pain even that twitch caused me. With an effort, I made my mouth work more or less normally. “That’s a very good imitation.”

“I really think you should leave before those fine sinners come back. Why don’t you call on little Putrid for help?”