The Stargazer (32 page)

Miles turned to glare at Ian. “Is that true? Did you pay twelve hundred ducats to have them find her guilty?”

“No, only five hundred. The other seven hundred must have come from someone else,” Ian responded dryly.

“S’blood, Ian, this is no time to joke.” Crispin was insistent. “Did you bribe the judges?”

“No!” Ian was equally emphatic. “I may be a monster, and I may even have left in the middle of the trial, but I certainly did not bribe any judges.”

“And the Senate?” Sebastian regarded Ian narrowly.

“No, damn it, I was trying to convince them to
release
her not condemn her.”

“Even though you thought she was guilty?” Miles looked suspicious.

“I didn’t really. I… I couldn’t. But all of this is immaterial because guilty or innocent she will be dead if we don’t soon take some action.”

Giorgio had released his grip on Nilo, whose sad eyes had grown large as the cousins exchanged words. When they stopped talking he stepped forward and addressed Ian.

“You swear you did not bribe the judges?” He was so solemn and melancholy-looking that Ian almost wanted to laugh.

Instead, he responded with equal solemnity. “I swear. And I did not laugh in the middle of her speech.”

“You did grunt,” Crispin put in, “be honest.”

Ian rolled his eyes at his brother. “It didn’t have anything to do with what Bianca was saying. That was when I realized that Giorgio had denounced her.” Nilo had turned to Giorgio and looked ready to spit fire at him, so Ian rushed on. “He had not, of course, I simply thought he had. I tried to ask Luca when he was called to testify, but you all saw how successful that was, so I left the trial to find out another way. And that was how I discovered Bianca was innocent.” Ian turned to face Nilo directly. “Now I need your help to prove it.”

The Arboretti stood motionless as Nilo studied Ian intensely. Ian could of course order the information out of him, but then there would be no guarantee of its accuracy.

“What can I do?” the boy asked finally, as if accepting a difficult military commission for the state.

There was a collective sigh of relief as the Arboretti returned to their meeting room, accompanied by both Giorgio and Nilo. Ian invited Nilo to take a chair next to his, then spoke to him.

“We need to know the names on the invitations you distributed last Tuesday night. I already know two of them, Valdo Valdone and my brother, Crispin, but we must know the other four.”

“I can’t tell you, because there were no names,” Nilo answered simply, then added, “They were addressed by initials only.”

“Then tell us those,” Ian said impatiently, then caught himself. “They will serve just as well.”

Nilo paused for a moment, then rattled off the four other sets of initials and addresses that had been printed on the cream-colored packages while Miles set them down on paper. When Ian thanked him and told him he could go, he was reluctant to leave but was finally persuaded by Crispin, who promised to alert him instantly if he could be of any further assistance.

Alone again, the Arboretti and Giorgio studied the list that Miles had made. It took only a few moments to identify the men to whom the initials belonged, and then they found themselves again at an impasse.

“We could go as a group and confront each of them. That way we would be less likely to get shot at,” Tristan suggested, only half in jest.

“Yes, and equally unlikely to screw a confession out of any of them. At least not on the first try, and we don’t have time for seconds.” Ian pushed the list away from him toward the middle of the table. “We just don’t have enough information to threaten them with exposure.”

Sebastian thought for a moment. “That may not be true. We have everything that Bianca had, maybe even more, and she posed a big enough threat to them to make her worthy of shooting. We must be overlooking something, something crucial.”

“I’ve just been going over everything in my head,” Crispin said from the end of the table, “and I can’t think of anything. We know the motive, we know who commissioned the jeweled dagger, we—”

Miles hit the table with his hand, unusually animated. “How many of the men Bianca invited to her gathering were also at the ball on Monday night?”

“All of them,” Ian answered with interest. “Why?”

Miles pushed his hair back and shook his head with resignation. “If they were all there then it doesn’t matter. I was hoping to eliminate at least one of them on the theory that the dagger, the real dagger used for the murder, was put in that plant during the ball. But if they were all here, it doesn’t do any good one way or the other.”

“Besides,” Crispin added, “we have no evidence that the dagger used to commit the murder was not already in the plant when it arrived.”

Crispin’s words sent Ian into a daze. No one spoke as he stared, unseeing, into the room before him. He was no longer with them but had instead returned to the scene of the crime. He drew his mind back to the room, calling up the details he had absorbed in his quick view of it. What came back to him was not the visual image, but rather the sound.

He had not fully returned to the meeting room when he finally spoke in a slow voice. “That plant was there at Isabella’s. I can’t picture it, but it had to be. I distinctly remember Bianca sneezing the whole time I was speaking with her.”

“If the plant was there, then it is more than likely that the dagger was put in it right after the murder to hide it, so that the jeweled dagger could be found on the corpse and taken for the murder weapon. That would explain how the denouncer knew not only where the dagger was but also where the plant was. Whoever sent the plant must himself be the murderer.” Miles’s excitement was soon dulled by Crispin.

“I don’t know who sent the plant,” Crispin explained miserably. “It just arrived the day before the party, wrapped in plain paper, no card, nothing. I thought it might be from one of our ships just returned from the East, but I asked around, and no one seems ever to have seen it.”

“What about some other ship from the East? There are ships arriving from Constantinople every day,” Miles pointed out.

“Like the ship Saliym came on,” Sebastian said quietly. “The ship that was to receive the shipment of gunpowder.”

“Twelve hundred tons of gunpowder,” Tristan put in slowly, with dawning awareness. “Twelve hundred tons of gunpowder and twelve hundred ducats paid as a bribe. That is quite a coincidence.”

“What are the chances,” Crispin asked, “that the conferences Isabella overheard were in fact the negotiations about this shipment of gunpowder? That the plant was given by the Turks as a ‘good faith’ at the conclusion of those negotiations?”

“Very, very high,” Ian said, too disgusted with himself for not seeing it earlier to sound excited. “Indeed, that is exactly what Bianca must have concluded.” The Arboretti’s eyes were glued to him as he explained. “She opened the meeting by announcing that one of the gathered guests was ‘a murderer, a thief, and a traitor.’ She must have understood the significance of the plant, the fact that it linked the meetings at Isabella’s to the Turkish gunpowder deal. At the time I thought she was just being overzealous, but now it’s so clear. It was that last designation, traitor, that almost got her killed. I’m sure of it.”

“Then we have found our man.” Tristan tried to keep his voice level when he spoke, telling himself not to get excited, that this could easily be another dead end. The others looked up at him, wondering if this was another joke, but he shook his head and continued. “Sebastian, do you have that list we drew up of the likely participants in the ammunitions deal?”

Sebastian nodded slowly. He produced a sheet of paper from within his tunic, studied it for a moment, then set it in the middle of the table next to the other list with a grim smile. The others, including Giorgio, crowded around the two lists, but only for a few moments. When they drew back, their faces wore a smile akin to Sebastian’s. There was only one name that appeared on both Bianca’s list of possible suspects and their list of possible traitors. There could be no question about it. They had found their murderer.

Even more than wet, Bianca felt cold. It was not an ordinary cold that had gripped her and left her trembling amid the rising water, but a deep, saturating cold that came from inside her. She was utterly alone, utterly without hope. And utterly without self respect. She had allowed herself to be taken in by Ian, even to fall in love with him! She had played right into his hands, blind to the truths so clearly arrayed before her eyes. Why had she been so eager to believe in his innocence at the scene of the murder, so quick to accept his pat explanations, so willing to overlook the detestation he made obvious from their earliest encounters? She forced herself to vividly recall the night he made her undress under his gaze, to remember the way he had repudiated her, pushing her from him with loathing as if she were a monstrous, stinking beast. Which was what she felt like, some disgusting creature who begged men to embrace her despite their obvious abhorrence.

She wondered at the effort it must have taken him to conceal his disgust when he lay next to her, the exertion it must have cost him to pretend to enjoy their coupling, to call out in just the right way, to lick and kiss and caress her body to climax. Beneath the stiff fabric of her bodice, her nipples tightened as she remembered his lingering touches, the feel of his soft hair brushing against her thighs, the sensation of his shaft pushing into her, the way he shuddered as he attained his release. Was that, too, faked? Was even that part of his plan to deceive her?

Her blood warmed slightly with that thought. Yes, she had been a fool, but she was not completely at fault. He had striven to earn her regard, had lied, cajoled, and compelled her to believe him, even telling that horrible tale about watching his best friend die before his eyes. He had made her feel for him, pity him. And love him.

She remembered how pleased he had looked when she told him what she felt for him, and now saw through his joyful expression to the triumph it must have concealed.
The bastard!
she thought to herself, suddenly filled with contempt. What right had he to toy with her life? Why had he chosen her as his victim? Why did she have to die for someone else’s crime? Especially if that someone was Ian?

She did not, she realized with a flash. She did not and she would not. She may have been duped and betrayed by Ian momentarily, but that moment was over. She would see that justice was served, even if it meant accusing the man she loved of a crime. The man she
once
loved, she corrected herself.

She was so fired with her new purpose that she rose from the bed and began to pace her cell, as heedless of the water that now filled it to mid-calf level as of the obstacles—among them her having been condemned for the very crime she wished to pin on him, and therefore not appearing as the most credible of witnesses—in the way of her denunciation of Ian. He would pay for what he did to her, she assured herself. He would not be allowed to get away with it.

Only when she walked smack into the wall of her cell did the severe limitations on her abilities occur to her.

“
Owwww
,” a voice said, which, although she neither recognized it nor was aware that she had spoken, she knew had to be hers. After all, she was the only one in the cell.

Wasn’t she? She turned her head cautiously from side to side, peering intently into the darkness for signs of life, and had just concluded that she was indeed completely alone when the voice came again.

“
Owwww
,” it whined, and Bianca leapt away from the wall. This time she was sure she had not spoken. A cold chill ran down her spine, undoubtedly the result, she hurried to persuade herself, of standing in calf-deep cold water, and having nothing to do with the potential presence of a phantom. She was not scared, her mind assured her, nor was she going mad. It was perfectly common and safe to speak with the souls of the dead. Even the souls of dead murderers lingering around the cells of their condemnation, no doubt waiting to extract morbid justice on the bodies of their successors. Perfectly safe.

She cleared her throat and approached the wall, wondering what the proper salutation for the phantom of a dead murderer might be, when her musings were interrupted.

“Don’t be a-coming back here to go a-bashing into the wall. Ain’t no one going to come down here with the water like that, and I’m a-liable to die of the shock. I’m delicate, I am.” He pronounced it “deleeecat.”

Bianca froze where she stood, her heart pounding wildly. The voice was definitely coming from somewhere in front of her, but all she could see was empty darkness and the wall of her cell. Curiosity about what type of infernal monster the Deli-cat might be momentarily overtook her desire for revenge, and taking a deep breath, she turned slowly to face the voice.

“I am sorry, I did not realize that there was anyone nearby.” She spoke politely into the darkness. “Where exactly are you?”

“If you’d a-move your eyes to where you’ve been moving your legs, you’d see me straight enough. I’m over here, where I always am.”

Of course, Bianca reminded herself, Deli-cats, like all phantasms, must hover in dark corners. She squinted toward the left corner of the cell, from which the voice seemed to emanate, and thought she could just see the outline of the head of a small man, hovering bodyless slightly below her eye level. She drew back, not sure whether she was actually prepared for her first encounter with a phantom. As she did so, the phantasm smiled widely at her and a disembodied hand appeared next to the face, beckoning her over.

“Why are you a-hesitating like that? What kind of a murderer are you, without even the wits to come and greet old Cecco?”

“I’m not a murderer,” Bianca insisted, “but I know who is. I must reach…someone.” She stopped abruptly, realizing that she did not even know whom to turn to. Her family had completely abandoned her, and even if the Arboretti did not think she was guilty, she could hardly count on them to denounce Ian.

Cecco’s head tilted to one side, observing her. “If you’re not a murderess, what are you doing down here, aye? That’s a trickier riddle than the old sphinx’s, it is.”

“Someone made it look like I committed a murder, but I didn’t.” Tullia’s promise of help suddenly flashed through Bianca’s mind. “Please, you must help me get word to my friend so I can be freed.”

Cecco shook his head. “You amateurs are all alike. Up and commit a perfectly nice murder and then you won’t even take the credit for it. Bah! In my day a murderer was a murderer and that’s all there was to it. I’d happily take the credit for all the murders I caused, happily, I say. This generation got no spunk in them.”

“I tell you, I am no murderer!” Exasperated, Bianca approached the floating head. “I must get in touch with my friend to tell her what I know. Do you have any special powers? Can you help me?”

“
Ha!
” The little face looked savage, and Bianca drew back. “You want my help, do you? You, a woman? Once I had freedom and a partner but I lost them both, and do you know why? On account of a woman!” He paused to study Bianca. “Of course, you look nothing like her, that witch. Compared to her, you’re just a stick with legs, you are. But still, you are a woman.”

Bianca was too busy wondering if all Deli-cats lacked manners or if she had just been lucky enough to get a cell haunted by a particularly misogynist one to take offense at his unflattering appraisal of her appearance. “If I am nothing like her, then maybe you could help me?”

“
Ha!
” Cecco frowned at her. “I was the best, the very best there was. If there was a fellow you needed taken care of, I was the one you got. D’you hear that? A
fellow
. I was a professional and would only deal with other professionals, that meant other men. But then that woman sent for me. She went all womanly on me, a-cooing and a-flattering, all about my beautiful eyes and my adorable little ears.” He sneered into the darkness, disgusted with himself. “Well, I would trade them adorable ones for a pair that didn’t work so well because they went traitorous on me, they did, letting her persuade me to do what she asked and where did it get me?”

Bianca, unsure whether she was supposed to speak and unwilling to antagonize the Deli-cat any more than she already had, only shrugged slightly.

“Nowhere! And now I have to go a-limping about in corners, waiting until night falls. Me, old Cecco, that once was the best of them all!” He scowled indignantly.

“Did she kill you herself?” Bianca asked, curious in spite of her more pressing needs.

“She would have if she had a-known. She wanted to. But I fooled her and disappeared. Now she can never find me.”

Emboldened by the Deli-cat’s semirational replies, Bianca decided to probe his powers. “Can you move around? Why don’t you haunt her instead of staying here?”

“What, am I supposed to go a-sneaking about her bedchamber saying, ‘boo’?” Cecco squinted at her.

Bianca shrugged. “Why not?”

“I never want to lay eyes on the witch again. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I ain’t got the propensity to walk through masonry.”

“But you are doing it now,” Bianca pointed out reasonably.

“I am, am I?” Cecco laughed. “You think I am some sort of spook hovering through the wall? Ain’t you never seen a window before?”

Startled by his laughter, Bianca waded closer to the head. As she neared, she saw that yet again she had proven herself a dim-witted fool. This was no phantom, no ghost, but rather a man with his head sticking out of a good-sized square opening in the wall. “Aren’t you a Deli-cat?” she demanded finally.

“Delicate?” Cecco repeated quizzically. “I already told you I was. I got a very delicate constitution. Your ears aren’t any too good are they, mistress?”

“You’re just a prisoner like me, then?” Despair colored each of Bianca’s words. A ghost might have been able to assist her, using his ghostly powers to fly through walls and deliver messages, she had reasoned, but a fellow being was perfectly powerless.

“I ain’t nothing like you!” Cecco’s lips curled as if he had just consumed an entire tree of lemons. “For one thing, I’ve got them adorable ears. For another, you’re a woman. An’ if that ain’t enough for you, I ain’t a prisoner.”

“If you are not a prisoner, what are you doing in a prison cell?” Bianca countered.

“Isn’t that what I was just explaining to you? Them ears of yours could use a good cleaning they could. I just live here.”

“You live in prison, but you are not a prisoner?” Bianca was clearly incredulous.

“An’ tell me, where would you live if you were a-hiding from a witch? Can you think of a better place?” Cecco demanded.

“You are hiding? You live here voluntarily to avoid being seen by someone? Who? Why? What could compel you to live here?” Bianca gestured to the sodden cell, now filled with water up to her knees.

There was silence while Cecco eyed her scrupulously. “I don’t expect you could keep a secret, being a woman and all, but what with them ears of yours and since you’ll be drowned dead before tomorrow, I just might tell you.”

Bianca, trying to understand what he meant about drowning, made a move to interrupt him and tell him not to bother, but he put up a hand to silence her. “I’ll tell you, to pass the time friendlylike, but you can’t be interrupting with women’s questions.” Cecco shuddered, as if women’s questions were some sort of extra painful version of the inquisitor’s rack. “But I don’t fancy standing up all this time.” He reached his hands through the hole. “Take these and I will pull you across.”

Bianca hesitated for a moment. If the Deli-cat was not in fact a prisoner, perhaps he could help her get a message to Tullia. But she would first have to overcome his antipathy for women. Realizing that the only way to accomplish that was to put her own needs aside for a moment and act agreeably toward him, she took the proffered hands and let herself be pulled through the hole, falling headfirst into the water. When she stopped spluttering and coughing, she opened her eyes and took in her surroundings. She was in a cell equivalent in dimension to hers and equally filled with water, but there the similarities ended. It was lit with a glass oil lamp hanging from a stand over an ancient brocade divan, which was elevated above the rising level of the water. The wooden bed had been made taller and covered with a cloth, atop which she could see an assortment of food and plates. One whole wall was covered with shelves containing everything from broken pieces of pottery to animal tusks and a crude rendering of the Virgin Mother. Another was hung with a faded tapestry depicting a knight bathing in a stream, looking especially lifelike as the real water flooded the banks of the depicted river.

She turned to the left and let out a shriek. All the stories she had ever heard about jokes played by the malicious souls of the dead came back to her instantly as she saw the disembodied head next to her. It was bobbing up and down with a ghoulish smile on its face, until her screaming began.

“Why you got to a-screaming?” it demanded, spitting water out of its mouth. “Ain’t I told you startling jolts aren’t good for mine constitution?”

“Don’t hurt me. Please, I beg you, just let me go!” As Bianca spoke, she pressed her body against the wall behind her.

“Hurt you? An’ I’m the one with the sore ears, that I am.” The head bobbed toward the furniture, muttering. “Hurt you!
Ha!
”

Under Bianca’s fearful gaze the head drew abreast of the divan. First one, then a second little arm emerged from the water, followed by a torso and two small legs. Five years earlier, the man’s curly ponytail, heavily padded shoulders, puffed leggings, and pointed shoes would have been the height of fashion. Or rather, Bianca corrected herself, the low of fashion, for there was nothing high about him. In fact, he was a dwarf.

When Cecco had pulled himself completely onto the dry safety of the divan, he turned to face his guest.

“Now do you want to hear the answers to all them questions or not?” he demanded fiercely. Bianca nodded, too stupefied to speak, and waded silently toward a stool that hovered above the level of the water. Once she was seated, Cecco cleared his throat and began his narration.