Dave Duncan - The Alchemist's Apprentice

The voice was right beside me, but I could not see the speaker’s feet. I was in the power of a fiend from hell and yet I felt a tingle of hope. This whole experience had been just too bad to be true. Even the Three must have some procedures to follow and one state inquisitor, acting alone, sending a witness straight to torture did not seem plausible. The king of France can lock up a man in the Bastille on a whim, a French count can have a peasant flogged or hanged, but in Venice a nobleman who strikes a servant will be charged and punished. The Republic has never tolerated despots.

“I don’t believe a word you say. Go away.”

A cold and scaly finger scratched all the way down my bare back, making all my flesh cringe.

The demon sighed. “We shall see. How’s this voice?”

“Senator Tirali.”

“Very good! A charming man. We have great hopes for him. Why aren’t you going to accept his offer?”

“How do you know I’m not?”

“You are. You think you’re not, but I am going to talk you into it. Violetta would love to go to Rome with you, you know.”

I had thought of that, Rome with Violetta…

Violetta’s voice said, “You can’t expect a harlot to stay faithful, darling, but you don’t mind sharing me and you know you can’t ever marry me. You’d be out of the Golden Book in a flash if you did that. We women are so fickle, Alfeo! We tire of our boy toys. Another month or two, if you’re lucky, and then I will send you away and find another.”

Back to the silky tones of Senator Tirali: “You need money, lots of money, so you can be her patron and pay her. You have that manuscript. It’s quite genuine, the only surviving copy of Meleager by Euripides. Selling it here will be very dangerous. You’ll have problems with provenance, Alfeo. Too many people know about it. But in Rome? Or even better, stop in Florence on your way there. Grand Duke Ferdinand is crazy about that sort of trash. You’ll be a rich man before you even get to Rome. That way you can be Violetta’s patron, have her almost all to yourself. And the opportunities! A trusted confidant of the Venetian ambassador? Millions, you can make there.”

“I have thought of all of that,” I said. “Go away. I have to say my prayers.”

The demon laughed. He changed to the Maestro’s scratchy old voice. “And there’s me. You know where I keep my gold, Alfeo, my lovely box of ducats. Nobody else even knows it exists, so no one will look for it. You know what all my books are worth, too, every one of them. And I’ve left them all to you in my will.”

I started to say a paternoster and was stopped by a monstrous punch on the kidney. I won’t bother to describe the results-you can guess. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I was left gagging and sobbing…Oh, Lord! If one punch made me weep like this, what would an hour on the cord do?

“Don’t interrupt me when I am tempting,” the demon said in Inquisitor Dona’s voice. “You need money, Alfeo. You need money to keep Violetta willing. You need money to restore your family name. Yes, it would be a shame to betray the Maestro when he’s taught you so much, but he can’t last much longer now, can he? You know how to use all those poisons, but a pillow will be better. When he goes to bed tonight. You’re a strong lad and he’s so frail. He won’t have time to realize what’s happening. Two minutes’ work and the world will be yours, Alfeo! Wealth, women, power.”

“And I won’t have to come to the palace in the morning.”

The demon chuckled. “Of course not! You’re clever, Alfeo. That’s what we like about you. You’ll do great things for us-as long as you don’t come here to the palace in the morning. If you do, we will be waiting for you, and this time it will be real. We will enjoy that, but you won’t.”

Somebody snapped his fingers.

I gasped at the blaze of light and almost fell off the chair.

My mouth was a desert. Squinting through my eyelashes, I searched for the water glass. It was empty. The fire had burned to embers. The light was a single candle, reduced to a stub, its flame reflected in the crystal globe.

“How long was I gone?” I mumbled.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the Maestro said. “An hour? Probably nearer two. It was very interesting.” He peered at me. “Are you all right?”

“Could be worse,” I said. “Need a drink.”

I staggered slightly as I rose. I went to the fireplace to find a lamp, lit it, and walked unsteadily to the door. My own room was closer than the kitchen, and I had water there. It soaked into my tissues like an elixir of life; it calmed my heartbeat; it was triple-distilled dew. I knelt to unlock the chest, but my hands were still shaking enough to make me fumble, and I needed three attempts to work the hidden catch and open the secret compartment in the lid. I gasped aloud relief when I saw that the manuscript was still there. Had it not been, I might have jumped out the window.

Back in the atelier, I went straight to the fireplace and lit more lamps to make the room bright. Every shadow held a lurking demon. I needed sunlight, lots and lots of noon sun. Tomorrow was going to be foggy. I sat cross-legged on the hearth rug, hunched close to the warmth.

Thump, thump -The Maestro came stumping across and settled into his favorite chair with a sigh of contentment. “You hadn’t told me about Circospetto.”

“Sciara? What about him?” I was feeding the embers, trying to coax them into a blaze.

“That the doge told you to report to him.”

“I would have told you when you were ready to report.”

“Well, I was going to write to the Ten, but obviously there’s political skullduggery afoot, so we’d better do what His Serenity wants.”

“I am sure there is but I would much rather write a letter.” Very much rather.

“No.” He put his fingertips together and began to lecture. “You must seek out Raffaino Sciara first thing in the morning and tell him I need to see all the suspects back at the Imer residence in the evening. We can reenact the murder and I shall show who did it and how.”

“And you’re not going to tell me who, are you?” I had the flames leaping joyfully now.

“No,” the Maestro said firmly. “It has to be done my way. Believe me, I do have good reasons. If I tell you in advance, then they may get the name out of you tomorrow.”

“That’s not impossible.” I shivered at the memory, the smell of the torture chamber, the harsh bite of the rope on my wrists. “How reliable is clairvoyance?”

“Huh?” The Maestro sat up so he could peer at me suspiciously. “Why?”

“I saw a vision.”

“You did? Excellent, excellent! Clairvoyance is a sign of maturity. It means you are starting to get your mind off that woman once in a while. Not for very long at a time, perhaps, but…” He paused, frowning. “But I put you into the trance, and I ordered you to view the past, not the future. So whatever you saw was not clairvoyance. What did you see?”

“The ultimate quintessence of unmitigated disaster. Answer my question, please. Is what I foresaw inevitable, or can it be prevented?”

“Of course it can be prevented! What use would clairvoyance be if the future was inevitable? Although,” he said cautiously, “it would be more correct to say that the foreseen can sometimes only be modified, not negated. The sagacious Zosimos of Panoplis wrote of a man who was told the ordained hour of his death and therefore fled to Memphis, only to be killed there by a falling chimney pot at the time and in the place predestined. The main thrust of a prophecy can by diverted sufficiently, provided you can find the fulcrum, the single crucial item that you must change to divert the turn of events, because history is a mighty stream washing all before it and it is only when you can find the place where inserting a pebble…What are you doing, Alfeo?”