Dave Duncan - The Alchemist's Apprentice

He chuckled like a hen calling her chicks. “I shouldn’t think so. The program seems reasonably foolproof. Perhaps the jack of swords may mean someone else. Benedetto Orseolo, for example?”

“It would be a lackluster match, even if my leg wound is worse than his shoulder’s. What does the rest of the spread mean?”

“It tells you who committed the murder and how I shall reveal the truth. Think about it.”

I resisted an urge to throw the old mummy into the canal. Bruno would just rescue him, and I might get Fulgentio’s outfit splashed.

At the top of the stairs, Bruno knelt to let the Maestro dismount. Ottone Imer was waiting there for us in his black attorney’s gown, and I was amused to see his mouth twitch a few times when he registered my sartorial apotheosis. I could almost imagine his brain turning from the Apprentice page to the NH page. The Maestro had been right, as usual- clothes talk.

I granted our host a small bow. “I see you have done us proud, lustrissimo.” The hallway was cramped, but he had not spared on candles. Wine bottles and goblets of crimson glass were arrayed on a table, and the servant Benzon was waiting there. He was staring wistfully at my gold and amber.

Imer said, “Welcome back to my house, Doctor Nostradamus. I hope this will be a happier visit than the last. May I offer you wine?”

“No. You did not the last time, not when I arrived. I hope we can duplicate the last time as closely as possible. Of course people will probably not arrive in the same order. I dislike standing…”

Imer conducted the Maestro into the dining room. Bruno, I noted, had shed the carrying chair and was taking it away to some nether corner of the house, probably the kitchen, where he would wait as patiently as a mountain all night, terrifying servant girls by smiling at them. I saw no reason why I could not try a glass of wine. I went over to Benzon.

“Blessings on you, Giuseppe. You have the same wines as last time?”

He nodded. “Yes, messer.”

“Which one is poisoned?”

His eyes narrowed. “All of them, Alfeo. Which one would you like?”

I had told him to call me Alfeo. I laughed. “The arsenic. I’ll try the retsina, please.” As he poured me a generous glassful, I said, “You may have your friend Pulaki back to help you shortly.”

“He’s no friend of mine,” Benzon said sulkily. “I never saw him before that night.”

I took a sip and grimaced. “You weren’t joking about the poison.”

“And I wish you wouldn’t! I didn’t poison anybody!”

I realized that he was terrified, a midget caught up in a clash of titans. I apologized. “You don’t have anything to worry about,” I assured him.

“No? You swear that?”

“Not unless you poisoned the old man. Maestro Nostradamus knows who did and is going to expose him. So you can relax.” Unless the tarot’s two of cups meant the waiters, of course.

Imer came stalking out of the dining room. “Doctor Nostradamus wants the guests shown into the salone,” he told Benzon, “and not served wine until later.” He noticed my wineglass, but did not comment on it. “How many will be coming, er… clarissimo?”

I made a graceful gesture with the glass. “I don’t know exactly. There were thirteen in the room on the thirteenth, but two are dead-the procurator and Alexius Karagounis. I doubt if the doge will appear again, but someone else can play his part. I expect Great Minister Orseolo, Missier Grande, and possibly his vizio. Perhaps others from…”

Imer drew breath sharply; his mouth twitched. In his blue and red robe, Missier Grande was mounting the stairs. Gasparo Quazza is an ominous sight at any time, yet it was his young companion I watched, the Greek’s servant Pulaki Guarana. He moved with difficulty, one hand gripping the balustrade and the other heavily bandaged and held tight against his chest. He wore the same clothes he had worn the previous morning, but they looked the worse for wear. So did he, face pallid under a heavy beard shadow, eyes sunk in deep wells.

Imer uttered a croak of welcome. I laid down my glass and bowed to Missier Grande.

“I am only here to observe,” he told Imer. “This man is a state prisoner. He has agreed to cooperate with the evening’s procedure.”

Pulaki nodded as if he would agree to anything that would delay his return to prison.

“And I am merely following sier Alfeo Zeno’s orders,” Imer twitched, dissociating himself from anything horrible that might happen and probably would.

Missier Grande turned his regard on me. It traveled from my cap to my shoes and back up to my eyes. “So what orders do you have for me, clarissimo?”

I find jokes from Gasparo Quazza unnerving. “I believe that all you have to do is observe, lustrissimo. What action you take is up to you. The meeting will be held in that room there. So far only my master is here. Will Domenico Chiari be attending?”

“No. He has other business.” I wondered if Quazza’s eyes had always been that cold or if his job had made them so. He turned and walked into the dining room. I heard him greet the Maestro.

“What did they do to you?” Benzon whispered.

Pulaki just shook his head, unwilling or unable to say.

“We don’t need you yet,” I said. “Go and wait in there, please.” I pointed to the salone, and he limped away while the three of us stared after him in horror.

All states use torture, of course. The confessions it extracts come with no guarantee of truth, so its main value is to incriminate people-either the victim or others-and terrorize all the rest. Was Domenico Chiari even then twisting on the cord with blocks of stone tied to his feet? In the Republic such questions are never answered and rarely even asked.

Now the suspects were starting to arrive, all determined not to keep the Council of Ten waiting. The Tirali men were first-Ambassador Giovanni in scarlet robes, sier Pasqual in black. They were steadying Violetta between them as she teetered up the stairs on her ten-inch stilt courtesan shoes. She was a grounded angel in a silver brocade gown, glittering with precious gems, her red-gold hair piled in two horns, her low neckline exposing peerless breasts padded to ride high. Her eyes widened when she saw me. I thought I recognized Aspasia behind them, calculating the political significance of my finery. If clothes spoke, mine were saying surprising things that evening. I kissed the ambassador’s sleeve. He was too gracious to ask, but he was definitely puzzled, wondering why his intelligence on me had been faulty.

Pasqual named Violetta to me as if we had never met. A glint of Medea’s smile warned me to be careful, but I had to live up to my debonair persona.

“I have heard tales of madonna Vitale and thought they were only myths. Now I see that they are legends.”

Aspasia’s response was instant. “Your subtlety flatters my wits, messer!”

“Alas, your wits are faster than my wit, madonna.”

“I keep my wits about me and they introduce me to others.”

“To wit?”

“To who? To you, messer.”

“Can you keep up with this sort of play, Pasqual?” the ambassador asked.

“Usually.” Pasqual was eyeing me thoughtfully.

Clothes talk, but mine had run out of funny things to say. I asked the Tiralis to wait in the salone.

And already the Orseolo contingent was approaching, three figures draped in mourning. I had expected Enrico to escort his daughter, but was surprised he had brought Benedetto. Bene had his sling on again, so perhaps he just wanted to remind everybody of his alibi. Unarmed, he did not look like a good candidate to be the jack of swords. Bianca, alas, was veiled and shrouded. Displayed as she should be, she would give even Violetta competition. I introduced Imer to the men, we both kissed the minister’s sleeve, and I sent them all off to the salone.