by Dave Duncan
In my dreaming progress I saw sphinxes and cherry trees, galleons and gladiators, but I did not linger until I arrived at a dark alcove, a hallway on my left, vast and cryptical, where stood two men I could not identify, for they were men of flame that wavered as flames will. One was gold and the other red. Nor could I make out their voices through the busy crackling of the fire all about me, but I could tell that they were quarreling. Their dispute grew ever more agitated until Red suddenly charged, raising a weapon—a cudgel, I thought, from the way he held it. Gold leaped back and drew a sword. He tried to lunge, but Red struck his blade aside and closed with him. Two flames joined, Red and Gold striving for possession of the sword. Gold evidently lost, for he broke loose and tried to flee, but Red stabbed at his legs with the sword; he dropped to his hands and knees, and Red plunged the blade into his back. He collapsed, understandably. I caught a brief glimpse of Gold lying prone and the victorious Red standing over him before the tragedy vanished in a blizzard of sparks.
Somewhere far off I could hear my own voice angrily describing what I was seeing, responding to the Maestro’s questions as if they were intolerable distractions. The part of me that wandered through the inferno was unaware of him, preferring to admire the twisted columns of flame that supported the roof, unseen far above. This was not the Inferno of which Dante sang, but a metaphorical playground of the fire elementals. Faces watching me were not damned souls, for many smiled. Some I knew, but they were all unimportant for my quest, so I pushed on through them without response.
Now the floor tilted downward until I walked thigh-deep in a sea of flame. Waves ran through it, and at times ran through me also, so that I walked underwater, except that the water was fire. In the troughs, when my head was above the fiery sea, I saw a figure in the breakers, two figures contesting together, so I headed in their direction.
One was undoubtedly Neptune, the old man of the sea, easily recognizable by his flowing beard as the model for the statue in the courtyard of the Doges’ Palace. The other was a mighty horse—a seahorse, obviously—plunging and bucking amid the fiery foam. This was important and I watched until I was certain that Neptune was going to win the tussle before I resumed my journey.
Clear of the ocean again, I walked down a long canyon lined with an infinity of alcoves holding infinities of shelves, each bearing infinite fires. “This,” I declared, “must be the storehouse of all wisdom,” for some shelves burned with clear, pure golden light, and others with dark red evil. Clothed in flames and whirling sparks, many people moved to and fro along the central hall, veering off to explore alcoves, ever seeking whatever it was their hearts desired. One couple I followed, although they did not seem to notice me trailing them. The woman was of rare beauty and they walked together bravely, hand in hand.
The man cried out and fell; in that moment I recognized him as Nicolò Morosini, Eva’s dead brother. The woman reeled back from whatever it was that had struck him down and turned to flee. I stepped aside as she approached, but after her came a small but fearsome thing of evil, perhaps a spider, moving too fast for her. Like a cat it leaped upon her. I rushed to help, brandishing flame, but she succumbed before I reached her and then the thing, whatever it was, darted toward me. Now it was my turn to fly in terror. I ran as hard and fast as I could but it pursued, racing over the ground, a fiery scorpion on many tiny legs. It was gaining, gaining…
I cried out and the Maestro battered the pyre with the poker to shatter the visions and bring me back.
15
The last relict logs collapsed in heaps of ash. Jumping awake, I squealed and almost fell over backward. I must have been sitting there for hours, for the wood had sunk to a bed of glowing coals. The real world seemed dark, cold, and unpleasantly solid. My eyes ached.
“Oh, well done, Alfeo! Well, well done!”
I could not recall the last time he had given me such praise, but I hardly registered it at the time. “What’d I say?”
“You don’t remember?”
I did, or at least I would when I had time to separate all the confused images, but I just shook my head. My throat hurt too much to speak.
“Wonderful things. Are you all right?”
I nodded, but thirst tormented me as if I had been eating salt. My legs were numb, my throat burned. I staggered to my feet, cotton hose slipping on the terrazzo. “Need a drink!”
“Of course. You go to bed. I’ll close up here.”
That was an unparalleled concession! I really must have done well. I had discovered a whole new talent.
“Yes.” I skidded and staggered across the room. The air out in the salone was probably as hot as ever, but felt like a welcome caress of cold after the atelier. Sweaty cloth clung to my skin. The big hall was dim, for only two lamps were lit, so it was the sound of a sword scraping from its sheath that stopped me, before I even saw the flash of the blade in front of me.
“Gesù!” Vasco’s startled face came into focus.
“Saints!” I croaked. “You back again?” I hauled off my hood.
“You?” He sheathed his sword. “What in Heaven’s name are you doing?”
“Rehearsing for Carnival. Why are you here?”
“The Council of Ten sent me back to guard you.”
Disgusted, I said, “That’s a wonderful step up for you. Now get out of my way.” I headed for the water barrel.
In the kitchen, I found Giorgio in the near darkness, asleep with his top half sprawled on the table, and the bench taking his weight. I made enough noise with the ladle to waken him. He sat up, showing no surprise at seeing me clad in black from the neck down.
“I’m sorry, Alfeo! The vizio bullied his way in past Luigi and insisted the Ten had sent him. I made him promise not to disturb—”
I paused for air. “You did right.” Another long, long drink…“You couldn’t refuse him. No harm done.” Except, of course, that Vasco was an armed man and he had entered uninvited, so he had broken the Aegia Salomonis. He might have done no direct harm himself, but what else had he let in that might? Sensing our barrier, had Algol used the vizio to break through and perhaps been able to pervert and falsify all my pyromancy? Damn!
“But before that—”
“Never mind!” I insisted. “Tell us in the morning. Go to bed.”
So Giorgio slunk off up to the attic, furious at having failed in his duty. I, having drunk enough to fill the Grand Canal, stalked back into the salone. I could hear the Maestro and Vasco arguing, so I left them to it and went into my room, locking the door behind me.
Here the air was even cooler, for all three windows stood wide and the heat had broken at last. As I hurried over to close the casements, I heard rain and distant rumbles of thunder. I had drunk so much water that I ought to have been breathing steam, yet I burned as if I were still infested with fire elementals. The effect they had on me then was that I needed—desperately needed—Violetta. Fortunately, she seldom goes to sleep before dawn. My clothes were still in the atelier and I could not waste time in changing. Although I rarely attempt the jump across to the altana of Number 96 when there is a wind blowing, that night I was ready to dare anything.
Having tied my keys around my neck with a lace, I opened the central casement again and lifted out the three loose bars, setting them on the floor with their tops leaning on the sill. Then I scrambled out and stood with my heels on the extremely narrow ledge just below, clinging to the fourth bar for support and already soaked. I heard the marangona bell in the Piazza toll midnight as I replaced the other bars and pulled the heavy casement ajar. Then I turned, leaped into the dark, hit the tiles with my foot, caught the rail of the altana, and was across.
The higher rooms at Number 96 were still jubilant with laughter and music and even a few angry voices, but the corridor and the stairs were dark and empty, so no one saw the bizarre apparition running down from the roof. Probably no one would have cared anyway, except to ask what special service I was getting and what it cost. The topmost fl
oor houses the gentlemen’s brothel and the ground floor provides speedy service for those who cannot afford better, while between them lies the floor where the four owners have their personal apartments; visitors there are admitted by appointment only and are few, because two of the owners are now retired. I let myself into Violetta’s suite and went straight to her bedroom. She always keeps a light burning, and that night she had two, for Aspasia was reading a book.
But instantly Helen was there in her place, hurling the book away, casting off the sheet, and extending the world’s loveliest arms in welcome. “Darling! I had almost given up hope! What in the world is that you are…were…wearing. Oh, you’re all…” Wet, perhaps, but she had no time to get the last word out before I was all over her, kissing her frantically.
“Saints preserve me,” she muttered when I gave her a chance. “I’ve never known you quite so…ardent!”
“Burning.” I kissed her lips again in passing.
“Combusting?”
“Deflagrating.”
“Cheat! No such word.”
“Is so. Ebullient, too.”
“Fervent.”
I thought, “Glowing,” but had no opportunity to say it and by then it didn’t matter. We never got to “Hot” or “Incandescent.” I do not recommend pyromancy to anyone, but it does have interesting side effects. It was almost dawn before I was completely burned out.
An hour before dawn the city’s churches ring for matins but I never hear them. Roosters scream and I respond with snores. Only at sunrise, a few minutes before the marangona rings, do I crack an eyelid—but that morning I suffered a sharp poke in the ribs.
“You must go.”
I grunted negatively and tried to cuddle closer.
“Listen to it!” she said. “You’ll have to go by the front door.”
The unpleasant noise in the background was a rattling casement and rain pounding the glass, which meant very high wind. In such a storm the high road would be close to suicide, so I would have to risk the watergate. Big storms are rare so early in the winter. Venice rules the seas but the weather pleases itself.
I persisted. “Luigi doesn’t open up until sunrise.”
“It will be sunrise in a few minutes. So stop that and go!”
I stole a last kiss, disengaged, and left her bed.
I shivered my way into my Guise of Night hose and smock, which were still damp, but were going to be a lot wetter before I reached home. I left Violetta’s apartment, locking it behind me, and trotted downstairs to sea level. Her timing had been perfect, because I heard the marangona—loud and clear, carried by the wind—as I let myself out the front door. Now workers would start emerging all over the city, a rising flow of men hurrying to their workshops, foundries, markets, and so on, hailing one another, stopping at churches and shrines for a hasty prayer. So far my luck was holding, for there were neither boats on the Rio San Remo, nor pedestrians on the fondamenta along the far side.
Getting into Ca’ Barbolano unseen would be the problem. Old Luigi unbolts the front door at daybreak and usually takes a look outside, just from habit. After that the Marcianas are supposed to post a boy to keep watch on it, except when the men are working in the androne, which is most of the time. But the old night watchman often interprets dawn a little earlier than the sun does, and adolescents have contrary instincts, so there can be a brief interval between man and boy. If I could slip in then, I should be able to run upstairs unseen. Of course I would leave a trail of wet footprints, but clean water does not show up on white Istrian marble.
So I crossed to the narrow calle and continued on to the Barbolano watergate, working my way along the ledge with my back hard against the wall, my toes over the lip, rain needling my face, and a howling gale trying to throw me off. No one saw me, or at least no one started a hue and cry about burglars, and with a sigh of relief I peered around the corner, saw that the great door was closed, and slipped into the loggia. Danese lay sprawled in a corner with the blade of a rapier protruding from the middle of his chest; the hilt under his back explaining his awkward, arched position. His doublet and the front of his breeches were brown with dried blood. His jaw hung open, his blue eyes stared in amazement at the ceiling, and he was very obviously dead.
This was an unexpected complication.
16
Enough rain had blown in to soak the loggia floor, so my wet feet should leave no traces. I went over to him and said a hasty prayer for his soul. This must be the murder I had seen in the fire, but I swear that this prompt proof of my talent for pyromancy gave me no pleasure. Although I had not liked Danese, I never thought he deserved such a sordid and untimely end. With his fishy stare and idiot mouth agape, he was no longer handsome.
I could not close his eyes, but rigor mortis begins with the face and there was still some play in his fingers, so the Maestro would be able to estimate the time of his death. His knees were scuffed and dirty, as were his hands and cheeks, which confirmed that he had scrabbled on the ground, as I had seen in the fire. There was blood on his right shin and calf. His head lay in the corner farthest from the arches; his legs and lower torso were wet, his hair and shoulders dry. I decided that the bloodstains had dried before the rain started blowing in, so he might have been lying there while I was speaking to Vasco upstairs. Would the judges of the Quarantia accept that argument? The case would never go before the Quarantia. Even without a possible link to the Algol investigation, the murder of a nobleman in another nobleman’s house would be taken over by the Council of Ten as a matter of state security.
What I needed least just then was Luigi coming out and finding me there in my bizarre burglar costume. There was still a chance that he had unbolted the door already and omitted his normal look outside, so I went to check that it was still bolted, which it was. Definitely I was not going to be sneaking in unseen through that door that morning. And now I saw that, while the floor of the loggia was cleaned frequently, the calle and the ledge never were, and my cotton hose had left a trail of muddy smears.
Think!
Cadavers in corners or face down in canals are not rarities, for Venice has its share of bravos and thugs. I dared not take time to search the body for Danese’s purse, but the killer had left a gold ring on his hand and a valuable rapier in his back. It had struck him almost horizontally from behind, missing his heart, for a heart wound would not have bled so profusely. Why leave him there to be found and not drop him tidily in the canal? Why had he returned to Ca’ Barbolano anyway, when he was supposed to be enjoying the connubial bed, back home in Ca’ Sanudo?
Grazia’s horoscope I must not think about. It had shown a dramatic upturn in her fortunes just about now.
Then the first bolt clattered and I was gone. The wind caught me as I swung around the corner, very nearly blowing me into the water, but I squiggled my way along the ledge and was almost at the calle when I heard Luigi scream. He would run inside for help, I knew, but my luck still held, for there was no traffic on either the water or the fondamenta opposite. Unseen, I reached the door of 96 and let myself back in.
While I ran upstairs, my mind flew even faster. Even if Luigi in his distress forgot that the vizio must still be upstairs, someone would think to summon the resident doctor. I must get back to my room soon, and if I could do so without being seen, Vasco himself would give me a perfect alibi. If I couldn’t, then I would have a lot of explaining to do. My backdoor highway would be exposed and then even Violetta could not give me an alibi, for a courtesan’s word is given little credence. In any case, I could have killed Dolfin on my way to visit her. I would do myself no good by going back to her then and might do her much harm. I went on up to the altana.
The wind on the roof was terrifying, eddying erratically off the higher Ca’ Barbolano. Had I waited to plan my jump I should have frozen in terror, so I just scrambled over the rail, took a last deep breath and a long stride down the tiles, then leaped into the gale. Obviously I did not fall fifty feet and break my n
eck, but I came unpleasantly close. My right hand caught one bar; my left slammed into another so hard that I twisted my wrist and failed to get a grip. My left heel found the ledge, my right missed it. As my fingers slid down the wet metal, I dropped, cracking my right shin on the ledge hard enough to bring even more tears to my eyes than the wind and rain had already put there. Forcing my left hand and wrist to do their duty, I managed to get a second hold and haul myself upright, getting first a knee and then both feet on the ledge. I clung like a spider for a couple of moments while my heart calmed down a little, then I pushed on the casement, but it was latched.
This was another unexpected complication.
That calle is very little used, for there is a much better one on the far side of 96, but I was visible from too many windows. To jump back or even hold on much longer in that storm were equally impossible. I lifted out one of the loose bars and used it as a battering ram against the pane nearest the window catch. On the second attempt I managed to break it, the thick bottle glass in the center falling out as a unit, and the thinner edges shattering. With some difficulty, I freed a hand to reach in and open the casement. Then it was only a matter of lifting another bar loose and squirming in through the gap.
Who was it who said that the best thing about travel is coming home again?
I cut a toe on a sliver of glass.
Ca’ Barbolano must be in turmoil by now, but no sounds were leaking through my door, which I confirmed was now unlocked, although I was certain I had locked it to keep prying Vasco out. I stripped and assessed my injuries. My hand would turn purple in a day or so, but my leg was much more serious—bleeding and in need of bandaging before I could put my hose on. The medical supplies were all in the atelier, as were my palace clothes. Had the vizio rushed downstairs to view the corpse, or was he still lurking outside in the salone?
