Dave Duncan - The Alchemist's Apprentice

Even Giorgio grinned. “Let that teach you not to sass swordsmen,” he said. They are all impressed that a mere apprentice like me can take fencing lessons, but the Maestro pays for them because he is physically very vulnerable and works a dangerous trade. I have known him advise wives to stay away from their husbands for their own protection, for example, and that is an excellent way to make enemies.

Predictably, Mama had provided a bathtub-sized bowl of pidocchi soup and a cannonball of mozzarella cheese, my favorite. When I let myself into the atelier, the Maestro was seated at his desk, peering into a book. Three more were stacked within reach, and I recognized them all as herbals. He scowled as I laid down my tray. He has so little interest in food that I keep track of his meals to make sure he eats at all.

“I can take it to the dining room if it bothers you,” I said, “but on reconsideration, I think my news is urgent.”

He pouted. “Sit, then.” He pouted even more as he studied my appearance. “A gift from your friend?”

“Certainly not!” I pirouetted, to increase his enjoyment. “Most of last year’s income and half of this year’s. An apprentice who fails to flout the sumptuary laws reflects badly on his master.” I sat down and tied a napkin around my neck to protect my freshly starched ruff.

The big double desk works well for us. We can pass documents back and forth readily. He is left-handed, I am right-, so we can both have light from the windows on our work. Noting that the medicinals I had bought the previous day had been removed, I started in on my delicious pidocchi, made from the sea louse, which is not as bad as it sounds, being a type of shellfish. Soup is easier to eat while talking than most things are-except when it is scalding hot, and Mama does make her dishes hot.

“So what was this message?” the Maestro demanded.

“I paid the gondolier five soldi.”

His eyes glinted. “That’s your privilege if you’re too lazy to walk.”

“True. But then I can’t be here for another twenty minutes.”

I spooned soup, smacking my lips to decorate the silence. I’m never quite sure when his crabbiness is genuine and when he’s just staging a fit of pique for our mutual amusement.

This time he conceded the point. “Enter it in the ledger, then.”

“Oh, thank you, master! Most generous of you. As you foresaw, we had an important visitor about an hour after midnight. I congratulate you on the quatrain. Admirable personification, antanaclasis, and metonymy.” I gulped and winced my way through my soup and the events of the night while the Maestro never took his eyes off me. He kept his book open and his finger on the place.

“It was a charade, of course,” I concluded. “The doge is the only permanent member of the Ten and Sciara has been Circospetto for years, so they must know how to work together. They want to give you a chance to escape before they are forced to open a formal inquiry. Sciara was mad that you were not here for him to bully. That’s all.”

“If you believe that, you’re even more naive than you look.” My master smiled, meaning he bunched up his cheeks and stretched his lips sideways without showing his teeth.

With saintly patience, I said, “If you had been home last night, Sciara would have given you the message and left, taking his guards with him. You weren’t, so he made the point more forcibly by scaring me half to death. But the doge is insistent-you must flee!”

I could guess what was coming from the jutting angle of the goatee.

“No! I’m too old to start over somewhere else. There is my wealth-” He waved a hand at the bookshelves. “Will you carry them for me? And where will I find a new clientele, a new palace to live in, new printers for my almanacs?”

I sympathized. I did not want to run away either, to be a homeless vagrant. But the risk was appalling.

“Can you prove that Procurator Orseolo died of apoplexy or hemorrhage or anything other than poison?”

The Maestro removed his finger and slammed the book shut. “Of course not. As soon as I examined him I knew he had been poisoned.”

I burned my tongue and spluttered. “Did you say so?”

“You think I am an idiot?”

“Not until now. It wasn’t your doing, I hope?”

“No, it was not.” The fact that he answered the question at all showed that he was worried. He could see his predicament; it was the solution he rejected.

I cut myself a hunk of bread and a wad of mozzarella. Needing some chewing time, I said, “If you didn’t poison him, who did?”

“I don’t know.” He seemed to shrink slightly, unaccustomed to admitting ignorance. “Ottone Imer is an attorney of citizen class and a bibliophile with more taste than money. Alexius Karagounis is a book dealer from Athens. He had some rare volumes to offer-looted from some Macedonian monastery, no doubt. Imer invited a few of the city’s most prominent collectors to view them at his house.”

In this case prominent meant wealthy. The Greek would face tax or licensing problems if he tried to sell the books openly in the Republic. Imer had acted as official host in return for a commission, and the learned Doctor Nostradamus had been hired as a consultant to testify to the works’ authenticity. He was a prominent collector too, but he could not compete with the truly rich. This all made sense.

“Did he have anything worthwhile?”

“Three or four minor pieces.” My master sighed piteously. “An almost complete Book Ten of the Aeneid written in an uncial hand that cannot possibly be later than Eighth Century. Incredible condition, but unmistakably genuine. Possibly the oldest copy known. Then there was something that might be one of the lost plays of Euripides.”

I gulped down my cud to ask, “Worth killing for?”

Another sigh. “If genuine it would fetch thousands of ducats.”

“I would kill for that.”

Nostradamus ignored my repartee. “I arrived early,” he continued, “so I could view the books. I met Imer and Karagounis, and they showed me the manuscripts, all laid out on one long table. I inspected them and agreed that they all appeared to be quite genuine. I remained in my chair-and the Greek stayed with me as if he thought I might grab his treasures and run away with them! I resented his supervision at the time, but now I welcome it, for I cannot be accused of tampering with the wine. I was never near the wine! When the guests arrived, most were shown into the salotto. The prospective buyers came into the dining room to inspect the books with their glasses already in their hands. Eventually our host realized that I had not been offered refreshment and ordered the footman to bring me the wine of my choice.”

“Then the books were auctioned?”

“Nothing so crass! Discreet negotiations were to be held later in the evening. When everyone had expressed admiration, we joined the ladies and other gentlemen in the salotto so the servants could lay out a supper in the dining room. Eventually we all went back there, but we had not even started on the antipasto when the procurator was stricken and we all went home.” Again he sighed and his eyes grew quite misty. “The Greek still owns his books. But he is a foreigner. They will suspect him first.” He was conveniently forgetting that he was foreign-born himself, although he had been granted full citizenship as a bribe to move to the city, many years ago. The Republic is notorious for luring all the best doctors in Italy to come and live in Venice.

I said, “The Greek is not an alchemist, and you are. Sudden death always provokes rumors of poison and most people cannot distinguish between poisoning and witchcraft. That was why you were so crabby yesterday. Also why you sent me out to buy half the poisons in the pharmacopeia-nux vomica, hellebore…You are planning to test each one to find out which creates the same symptoms? Shall I ask Giorgio to bring in his children?”