The Alchemist's Apprentice (20 page)

G
iorgio rowed me to the Molo before dawn. Fog lay on the city like wet cement, muffling even the halfhearted slap of ripples. As we tied up, the
Marangona
bell boomed out to sound the start of the working day. It sounded right overhead, but I could barely even see my own feet in the murk, let alone the bell tower. I climbed out onto the Piazzetta, accelerated by a neck-cracking heave from Bruno, behind me. He had no idea why I needed him along, but he found this fumbling around in the dark great fun. In a moment he was up beside me. Because I had left my sword in the gondola and had not asked him to bring his flatiron, he had no worries.

I did. “I hope I won't be long,” I told Giorgio.

“I can wait,” he said. “It's what I do best.”

“You make babies best.”

“Mama does that. It's nothing to do with me.”

I beckoned to my giant and set off along the loggia they call the
broglia.
This is the part of the Piazzetta where noblemen meet and do their plotting before the Great Council meets. It is where votes are bought and sold, deals made, offices traded. It is where every young noble must wait anxiously on his first appearance until he is beckoned in to be introduced and suitably bribed to deliver his vote. I had never seriously considered ever being one of them, but if I had Senator Tirali—who by then would be former Ambassador Tirali—as my patron, then anything would be possible.

There had been a change of plan. Until the soothsaying the Maestro had intended to have me deliver a letter to the Lion's Mouth, but in my trance I had told him of the doge's command to report to Raffaino Sciara, so that was what I was going to do. My problem would be finding him.
Circospetto
, like
Missier Grande
, keeps no regular hours. He attends the Senate and the Council of Ten, which meet in the afternoons and evenings respectively. He had come to the Ca' Barbolano in the middle of the night. It seemed very unlikely he would be available at dawn. Even he must sleep sometimes, so I would probably have to make an appointment to see him and return later.

My second problem was that the doge was not playing by the rules.

I did mention, did I not, that the Republic likes to keep things complicated? Since no one in government trusts anyone else, matters are arranged so that every man will have others watching him. The Council of Ten consists of seventeen men, with a state prosecutor present to advise on the law, and sometimes with another fifteen or more men added, when things look so nasty that the blame must be widely spread. The Ten's agenda is set by the three “chiefs of the Ten,” who are elected anew each month and must remain within the Doges' Palace during their terms. They each hold one of the three keys needed to open the Ten's “Lion's Mouth” drop box. It was to them that I ought to be reporting evidence of murder, and if they demanded to know why I wanted to meet with Raffaino Sciara in person, I would have to do some creative talking.

There are several ways into the palace. I had chosen to go by way of the Piazzetta and the Porta della Carta because I might have to send Bruno away and it would be easier for him to find Giorgio by retracing his steps—the Rio di Palazzo is so narrow that gondolas are not allowed to linger at the watergate. We stepped through into the great arched passage beyond, where lamplight hung like golden spheres in the fog, barely reaching the paving below. A guard slammed the butt of his pike down and demanded to know who went there. What was visible of him between his breastplate and the brim of his helmet looked thirty years older than he sounded, but I think it was just his first glimpse of Bruno that made his voice so boyishly shrill.

I introduced myself and explained that I had urgent business for
Circospetto.
We were ordered to wait. One man went into the guard room, two more came out to keep an eye on Bruno. A fourth was sent off to report to someone. Time passed. Graveyard cold seeped into my bones; fog spitefully saturated all my clothes. I wished someone would offer me a seat, preferably close to a fire.

The messenger returned and hurried into the guard room to report. Two men emerged and one of them told us to follow them, which was a good sign, I supposed. The other followed us. Halfway across the courtyard the signs became very bad when I saw that we were heading to the watergate beside the Wells, which was not the route by which honored visitors were taken to anywhere. Sure enough, we were led up the same, narrow stairs I had climbed when Sciara brought me in. They were a trial for Bruno, who had to stoop low to get through some of the brick arches.

Three storeys up we left the stairwell and entered the room of the chiefs of the Ten, which is very splendid, especially its ceiling paintings by Veronese and Ponchini. I was given no time to admire them, even had the light been good enough. We crossed to another door and were ushered through into the room of the inquisitors, the Three. Tintoretto painted that ceiling and the walls are richly paneled, but I doubt if many of the people who visit it are ever concerned about its art. On the dais sat a single man, seemingly doing nothing except waiting for us to arrive. He was elderly and portly, with a silver beard and a heavy, weathered face, looking as if he might have been a husky sailor in his youth, now run to seed. He wore the sumptuous scarlet robes and velvet tippet of a ducal counselor, plus an unfriendly scowl.

I walked forward. Bruno stayed close to my side, but our escort must have stopped at the door, for I could not hear their footsteps. I came to a halt and waited to be announced. I wasn't.

I bowed. So did Bruno.

“Your Excellency, I am—”

“I know who you are,” he growled. “Do you know me?”

“I believe I have the honor of addressing the ducal counselor from San Paolo,
sier
Marco Donà.”

There are six ducal counselors, one from each ward of the city, each elected for an eight-month term. Their job is to restrain the doge, who can do nothing without the backing of at least four of them. Like the doge, they are automatically members of the Council of Ten. I did not know whose side Donà was on, because I did not know why sides were even necessary.

“I am also a state inquisitor.”

Which is exactly what I had been afraid of.

The inquisitors are the Three—I did warn you this was complicated. The Three are not the three chiefs of the Ten, but a subcommittee of the Ten, consisting always of two ordinary members and one ducal counselor. The Ten may delegate any or all of their powers to the Three.

At a loss for words, I bowed again. So did Bruno, who would know only that the man in the fancy robe must be important if Alfeo was being so respectful.

“Who's he?” Donà demanded.

“He's a mute, harmless unless he's attacked.”

“What's he for?”

“Armed men tried to kill me yesterday, Excellency.”

“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 Donà.

“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.