Dave Duncan - The Alchemist's Apprentice

Giorgio shot the gondola in between two others in front of the Palazzo dei Dieci Savi and shouted “That way!” I scrambled ashore and hobbled as fast as I could along the Ruga degli Orefici, which was packed with people heading home for their midday meal. The bankers mostly congregate near the church of San Giacomo di Rialto, scribbling in ledgers laid out on tables under the porticos. If Domenico Chiari was about the same age as Vasco and myself, as Vasco had implied, then he would be no more than a clerk, a junior who might be sent off on errands anywhere in the city. So Vasco might have drawn a blank and headed back to the palace to report to Missier Grande.

But he hadn’t. San Giacomo answered my panted prayers, and I caught a glimpse of a red cloak. The vizio was standing by a pillar, having a friendly tete-a-tete with a man of our age, but shorter, pudgy, and bespectacled. The crowds had observed the cloak and left a clear space around them. Even so, the two men were conversing in whispers. Fortunately Vasco had his back to me, so I was able to approach unnoticed and come to a stop right behind his shoulder. I leered like a shark at Domenico so he could not help noticing me-eavesdropping is beneath my dignity and honor unless I can do it unobserved.

He flinched. With his eyeglasses balanced on an almost comically snub nose, he looked very owlish.

Vasco whirled around and bared fangs at me. “What do you want?”

“A chat with the illustrious Domenico.”

“Go away!” the vizio said. “Or I will arrest you as a public nuisance. Dom, never answer any question this character ever asks you. If he pesters you in any way at all, throw him in the canal.”

Chiari smiled nervously. “I don’t think I could do that without help.”

“A lot of help,” I suggested.

“Would four scriveners and two tallymen suffice?”

Oh? A wit!

Vasco was not amused either. “Go away, Zeno.”

I shrugged. “A very few questions, quite harmless. Does he spy for the Council of Ten?”

Chiari, regrettably, failed to turn pale or flinch guiltily. He laughed as if that was the funniest suggestion he had heard in years.

Vasco said, “That is none of your business. I have to put up with you, but I will not allow you to harass my friends. Now go!”

Fun is fun, but if I concealed information just to score points off Vasco, I would be handing him a stick to beat me with in future. Besides he was several points up on the morning.

“Truce?” I said. “Just listen while I ask him a couple of questions. Whether he answers or not, you will be glad you did.”

“No!”

“He’s lying to you. Upon my honor and as I hope for salvation.” I crossed myself.

We have cooperated in the past, Filiberto Vasco and I, although not often. We both hate doing it, he probably more than I, but he knows I play fair. I am not always so sure about him.

He scowled. “Truce then, as San Marco is my witness. Dom, this is sier Alfeo Zeno and you are still not required to answer his questions.”

Chiari peered politely at me over his eyeglasses. “How may I help you, clarissimo?”

“The Miracle of the Holy Cross,” I said. “Painted by Titian. You advised sier Bellamy Feather when he bought it?”

This time his response was more guarded. “I translated for him during the negotiations. I do not pretend to be an art expert.”

“But you are a Venetian? You speak like one. You must have recognized the bridge in the background of that picture.”

“It looked much like the Rialto, but artists-”

“I remember the new Rialto bridge being completed,” I said. “So must you. When did Titian die, lustrissimo?”

“I don’t recall, clarissimo. I am not-”

“1576.”

If I could see the sparkle of sweat on his forehead, Vasco certainly could.

Chiari said, “I think the picture is in the master’s style, painted by one of his pupils, messer.”

“No doubt, but it purports to be signed by him. How much did Feather pay for it?”

“I don’t remember.”

I had no need to ask more questions. He was pale as ashes and Vasco scarlet with fury.

“What are you implying, Zeno?”

“Truce, remember? One or two bad fish in the net I could understand, but the Feathers’ association with your friend turned out to be astonishingly unfortunate for them. The lady showed me six paintings, and only one of them was any good. Your friend must consort with very unscrupulous dealers. Does he spy for the Ten?”

Vasco said, “Yes,” through clenched teeth. Domenico gaped at him in horror.

“So when a rich foreigner and his wife arrived and rented a luxurious-”

“No!” Chiari squeaked. “His bankers in London wrote to Ca’ Pesaro before he even arrived-”

“Immaterial,” I told Vasco. “Ca’ Pesaro reported the London request to the Ten-or the Ten opened their mail, perhaps. Probably both. House Pesaro was told to assign your friend to the Feathers, because very rich foreigners are suspect. He discovered they had more money than knowledge, and no evil intent whatsoever. He proceeded to swindle them blind, feeding them the sort of junk that is painted only to dupe tourists. He may even have embroidered his reports to Circospetto to make the Feathers seem dangerous enough to justify watching. What sort of kickback did the forgers give him, do you suppose? Half? A third? Then either the Bellamys found out what he was doing and threw him out, or the Ten decided that they were harmless and pulled him off the case. I remind you, my dear Filiberto, that while we Venetians are the world’s hardest bargainers, we do always keep our word. Swindling customers is just not in the cards.”

Vasco was snarling. “Have you finished?”

“Certainly. I proved my point, didn’t I?”

“The truce is ended. Get out of here.”

“Do I have to report this thief to the Lion’s Mouth?”

“I will take care of him. Get out!” Vasco repeated furiously.

Domenico Chiari crumpled to the ground in a dead faint, causing heads to turn. Spectators cried out in alarm, with undercurrents of anger against the bullying vizio. I bowed with an ironic flourish and left Vasco to deal with the situation.

About ten points to me.

As I limped back across the campo, I reflected that I should have played my hand a little more subtly. I had not discovered the truth about the Feathers’ visit to Karagounis. They had insisted that the Greek had invited them to the Imer book viewing; he had denied doing so. No doubt Domenico Chiari had arranged that misunderstanding for his own purposes. Well, although Karagounis was beyond questioning, Chiari was not and the Ten’s tormentors would soon strappado the truth out of him.

“You’re looking happy, Alfeo,” Giorgio said, as he rowed us sedately along the Grand Canal.

“It’s been such a wonderful morning! I haven’t had so much fun since I was four years old and pulled wings off flies.”

“Now you pull feathers off the vizio?”

“Darling Filiberto!”

“Be careful of him, Alfeo. He’s a dangerous enemy.”

“He’s a wonderful enemy. He never stops trying.”

“That’s what I mean,” Giorgio said.

It was too early to call on Violetta, so I went upstairs to see if the Maestro had opened and read my letter from Ambassador Tirali.

He had, of course. Then he had used it as a bookmark, so I had to ask him where it was and he had to find it for me. He was still deep in his pursuit of Hermes and Mercury. While reporting on the last couple of hours I tried to bring some order to the incredible clutter he accumulates the moment my back is turned.

He nodded. “Satisfactory. There are some letters to write, and…About tonight…” He fixed me with a scraggy eye. “Wear your sword.”