by Dave Duncan
If I blurted out my suspicions without confirming them first, I would be dismissed as a lunatic. “We are still one short, Excellency. Madonna Fortunata Morosini is not here.”
Gritti frowned as if annoyed that he had forgotten her.
Still standing by the door, Giro said, “She is having one of her bad days,” as his father was saying, “She could not contribute anything, Your Excellency.”
Nothing could have aroused an inquisitor’s suspicions faster than those simultaneous refusals. Gritti ruffled up his feathers. “Nevertheless, if my precocious young friend wants to try interrogating her, let us humor him.”
He could have been more tactful. Zuanbattista glared at me as if he were about to choke, and Giro marched angrily out of the room, which was his version of a screaming tantrum.
The icy silence remained behind.
“That portrait of your honored brother, madonna,” I asked Eva. “When was it painted?”
Although she had no choice but to put up with the state inquisitor, she was no more in favor of the upstart, busybody apprentice than her husband was. The clefts framing her mouth deepened into canyons. “When they were married, of course.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“Fifteen years ago, just a month before Grazia was born.”
Assuming that the painter had not flattered his subjects too extremely, the woman ought to be in her thirties by now, if she still lived. I was about to ask her name when a cane tap-tap-tapped outside.
Giro entered, walking slowly and supporting Fortunata on his arm. The men rose while he guided her to a chair. Once she was settled, he presented the inquisitor, speaking loudly. She peered at us as if the room was filled with dense fog and perhaps it was, for her. I could imagine nothing in the world less likely than the decrepit Fortunata Morosini wrestling a rapier away from a ruthless young ne’er-do-well like Danese Dolfin. Nor did I expect her to be much help to the inquisitor in the investigation. But the Maestro had been right—her resemblance to the bride in the portrait was undeniable now that I knew to look for it. My scalp prickled.
“Ottone Gritti?” she muttered. “I knew a Marino Gritti.”
The inquisitor sat down again and stretched his legs as if his left hip hurt. “My son, madonna. You have heard of the sad death of sier Danese?”
“Eh?”
Louder: “You have heard of the sad death of sier Danese?”
“Not sad!” She bared a few yellow fangs. “Pretty-boy thief, that’s what he was. Good riddance.”
“Why do you call him thief, madonna? What did he steal?”
In the background Giro was shaking his head.
“Stole my pearls!” she said. “Stole my ring.”
“You mislaid them, Auntie,” Giro said softly. “We found them for you.” She was not expected to hear that and did not seem to.
“When was the last time you saw him?” the inquisitor asked.
“Who?”
“Danese Dolfin.”
She mumbled and mouthed a while, then pointed her cane at me. “When he was here.”
“Yesterday at midday,” I offered.
“Fortunata suffers from terrible headaches,” Giro said. “She retired to her room soon after Zeno left and would not have seen Danese after that.”
Gritti said, “Then I do not see…” He looked at me.
“May I ask first,” I said, “how long the jewels were mislaid?”
Zuanbattista frowned at me, but this time there was calculation mixed in with the resentment. “About a week, I think. Old people get confused. She had hidden them inside one of her shoes.”
“Or somebody else did? I mean someone stole the originals, had them copied, and then hid the replicas there to be found?”
He nodded. “I see what you mean. I will have them appraised.”
That, I thought, had been the source of Danese’s gold, which I could not mention but might manage to discover later if I got the chance to explore his room. I turned to the inquisitor and pointed at the painting.
“Your Excellency, did you ever meet sier Nicolò?”
“Several times. Very tragic. Why do you…” Gritti’s reaction was everything I could have hoped for. He lost his normal high color, his eyes bulged. Then he stared at the wizened crone on the chair.
“How old is madonna Fortunata?” I demanded.
“She has aged a lot recently,” Eva said defensively.
“But how many years?” I persisted. The family frowned at my insolence.
“What possible business is that of yours, apprentice?” Zuanbattista barked.
Fortunata Morosini wore widow’s weeds, but most Venetian women continue to use their maiden names after marriage. She was not a sister of Eva’s father, but of her brother, Nicolò. Not Eva’s aunt but Grazia’s. Zuanbattista had said so on the day he and his wife came to Ca’ Barbolano, but after meeting the old woman I had made the natural mistake, or the jinx had deceived me also. I had skipped a generation in my thinking. She had done worse than that, something unthinkable.
“Call it my business,” Gritti said grimly. “How old is this woman?”
Zuanbattista shrugged. “Thirty-four? No, thirty-three. As my wife said, she has gone down a lot in the last few years. I admit I was shocked when I returned from Constantinople.”
“She looks at least seventy!”
I would have said eighty, but I was engrossed in watching the reactions: Giro’s horror, Vasco’s disbelief, and the overall confusion of the Sanudos as they fought free of the web the jinx had spun over them. Giro muttered, “Seventy?” to himself and dismay crept over his face. Eva, also, and Zuanbattista…and Grazia? Too late! I had missed it, but there had been something wrong with her reaction. Had Grazia approved of her tutor’s misfortune?
Ancient Fortunata herself had caught up with the conversation. Her face had crumpled into a wad of creases and she was trying to clench her knurled fists. “Old!” she mumbled. “Old! Don’t want to be old, old, old.”
Giro crossed himself. “She is younger than I am,” he said, almost inaudibly. “She has failed a lot these last few years. Every time I went across to Celeseo I was…shocked…”
“The curse blighted her and blinded the rest of you,” I said.
“Foul witchcraft!” the inquisitor growled. “Whom do you accuse, Zeno?”
My scalp prickled again. Even in Venice, where the law is fairer than anywhere else, there is really no defense against an accusation of witchcraft. You can be tortured until you confess and then you are put to death. Just by exposing the curse I might have revealed too much knowledge of the Devil’s works. I was saved from having to answer by Fortunata herself, who suddenly exploded, hammering her cane on the floor and shrilling, “The book was cursed! The book was cursed!” After a dozen repetitions she broke off into coughing and weeping.
“Nicolò’s death?” Gritti demanded of nobody in particular. “Is that what she means? Was there such a book?”
Eva was looking much more distressed by this discussion than she had been by Danese’s death. “My brother died of a poisoned finger and he always said it started with a paper cut, but he could not remember which book did it. My brother handled a hundred books a day, maybe several hundred.”
“And what happened to his collection after his death?”
“Most of it is downstairs,” Zuanbattista said, looking much more skeptical, “still being unpacked and sorted. We have added to it, but I don’t believe we ever sold off anything.”
“You accuse a book, Alfeo?” Gritti inquired sourly. “Which book? How do you tell an accursed book from all the rest?” To him an accursed book would be much less satisfying than an accused witch. Venice disapproves of burning books. He would be laughed at if he burned a mountain of books.
Two of my three visions had now been vindicated—Danese had been murdered exactly as I foresaw, and the woman in the painting had been cursed by the same evil influence that had felled her husband. That left Neptu
ne and his seahorse. I would trust the pyromancy and hunt for Neptune, but if I said that I would be asked why.
“An object can be touched by Satan, Your Excellency, just as a person can. There are talismans of good fortune, like blessed rosaries or San Christoforo medallions, and there are evil talismans also. In the days before printing, when books were treasures in themselves, they were often protected by a curse written on the first page, threatening misfortune on anyone who stole the book from its rightful owner. The curse might be worded so that it fell on anyone who possessed the book thereafter. I certainly do not accuse the late sier Nicolò of theft. He might in all innocence have purchased a jinxed book, though, and then the curse would transfer to him and his house.” I fell silent, realizing that I was talking too much.
If I had only one believer in that room, it was sier Ottone Gritti. “And how does one detect such an abomination?” he demanded eagerly.
“I would be inclined to send for a priest, perhaps even the cardinal-patriarch himself. My master has never taught me a specific procedure.” What he had told me often enough, though, was that, Truth must sometimes hide behind a curtain of lies. My Christian duty was to locate and destroy the jinx before it did any more damage. It had killed Nicolò Morosini, blighted his wife, perhaps turned one of the Sanudos into a traitor. It might have brought about Danese’s death. I must do whatever I could to track it down and destroy it, even at risk to myself. I had a brain wave. “Except possibly dowsing,” I added thoughtfully.
All around the room eyebrows rose like pigeons in the Piazza.
“Dowsing?” Giro said.
Even Gritti would have trouble classifying dowsing as witchcraft. Even our skeptical doge might admit that there could be something to dowsing. Dowsing is not practiced in Venice, sitting in the middle of a saltwater lagoon, but everyone knows of and believes in dowsing—except the Maestro. Dig a hole deep enough almost anywhere and you will find some water, he says, so dowsing is a fraud almost without risk. I hoped it would be for me.
“Apple wood would be best, I think,” I mused, looking profound. “The tree of knowledge, of course. The tree of the serpent.”
“We have an apple tree!” Grazia said brightly. “I will show sier Alfeo.” She rose to her feet.
“That is good of you, madonna,” Gritti said with a benevolent smile. “By all means let him try his dowsing for evil.” He nodded to Vasco, who stood up also. I would have my jailer in attendance and a reliable witness, while Gritti could have a private talk with the Sanudos, in the absence of the kiddies.
24
We trooped downstairs, Grazia and I, with our macabre shadow treading close behind. Grazia had abandoned any pretense of liking me. I was a barnabotto, I worked for a living, and I was continuing to meddle in her affairs. So why her sudden desire for a private tête-à-tête? I had a strong suspicion that we would shortly be discussing horoscopes.
“Danese,” she murmured. “He did die quickly, didn’t he?”
No. “Yes,” I said. “It must have been instantaneous. He would have known nothing.”
“I am glad. He is with the Lord. He never reached his mother’s house?”
“So the lady says.”
“Was she lying to you?”
“I do not know, madonna.”
By this time we were parading along the androne amid all the books, and Grazia stopped suddenly, as if to add import to her next question. “Or are you saying that sier Danese lied to me?” She was back to using her speaking-to-servants voice to me, but clearly the unwelcome truth was starting to sink in.
“I do not know, madonna.”
She bit her pretty lip. “He must have been killed on his way to see her?”
Even as a child I had despised Danese’s mendacity and I felt that Grazia deserved the truth from somebody. “He first went back to Ca’ Barbolano to fetch his sword. The Maestro and I were busy, so he could not find it, and he borrowed mine instead. We don’t know why he needed a weapon. Do you?”
In the gloom of the androne, her memorable eyes seemed even more huge than usual. “No! You have no idea who did this terrible thing?”
“Not yet, but we will catch him, I am sure.”
“And I suppose my husband’s death was the upturn in my fortunes you read in my horoscope?”
There are times when lies are necessary. “No, I do not believe that at all, madonna. I am hoping that what your horoscope predicted was the removal of the jinx. Let us proceed with that, please. We are dealing with a very potent evil.”
Now, that was the truth. What I was about to try might be dangerous. Not dowsing—I was deliberately cozening with that—and not much in arousing Gritti’s suspicions of witchcraft, but in looking for Neptune. Two of my fire visions had proven to be true predictions, so I could hope that the Neptune one would lead me straight to Algol, and I had developed a deep respect for Algol’s demonic powers.
We continued our trek to the back door and out into the garden and a misty rain. My guide pointed her dainty finger at an apple tree, which was not the one I had had in mind and would be harder to climb. No matter, we hot-blooded young gallants can always be trusted to show off in front of a fair damsel. I jumped high to catch a branch. The result was an instant deluge, drenching me. Ignoring Vasco’s hoots, I hauled myself up and into the tree. There I chose a twig as long as my leg, with good side-branches, and cut it off with my dagger. I followed it down and we all retreated under the shelter of the upper-floor balconies where I stripped leaves and unwanted growth off it, leaving only the traditional Y shape.
“This is exciting!” Grazia informed Vasco. “Have you ever watched anyone dowsing for evil before, Vizio?”
“No, madonna. I don’t suppose I ever shall again.”
“You should let me teach you,” I said. “Except that we must concentrate on your fencing lessons first.” I opened the door and bowed Grazia ahead of me, letting Vasco follow us. “Now, madonna…”
I surveyed the long hall lined with ten-foot high bookshelves along either side, fitted with wheeled ladders for access to the upper layers. There were still two or three thousand volumes on the floor, in stacks and boxes. My heart failed me. Even to fake a survey of all this would take hours, and Gritti might decide to leave at any moment. Either he would take me with him or the Sanudos would evict me as soon as he had left; my chance to find Neptune would have gone.
The wall of bookshelves along the right side of the androne—which was currently on my left since we were at the rear of the house—was broken by three doors, opposing two doors and the staircase on the other side. The nearer door on my right was open and led to the kitchen, directly under Grazia’s chamber. Marina and Pignate were bustling around in there, preparing dinner. I told my mouth to stop watering.
“I think I will leave the main collection until I have surveyed the rest of the house, madonna. That will help me get the wand attuned. And I will leave the kitchen until the end, so I do not interrupt the cooks’ important labors. Now, what are those other rooms? Not more books, I hope?”
I had spoken in hope and jest, but Grazia said, “Yes!”
She crossed to the right side and threw open the rearmost door. The room beyond was packed with crates of books, piles of lumber, and half-completed bookshelves. I believe I groaned.
“Tiring work, is it, dowsing?” Vasco murmured behind me.
“And that’s still not all!” our guide proclaimed, heading to the front of the house. The room there was in much the same condition, except that the construction was further along. “This will be for the most valuable volumes.”
Now I had the plan clear in my mind. The right side held two rooms of books, and the other side had the kitchen at the back and a front room that I could guess.
“This,” I said, heading for it, “must be Fabricio and Pignate’s?” Girolamo had said they slept close to the door. “Let us start there.”
The chamber was spacious. A bed apiece and a chest for clothes and a couple of
chairs, all of them quality pieces. The Sanudos were generous to their servants, even if they worked them hard, for I have seen dormitories half its size with a dozen flunkies packed in like salted fish. Holding the branches of the wand, I raised it so the stalk pointed straight forward.
“Please do not speak for a few moments,” I said, concentrating. I mouthed a prayer, which was perfectly sincere, an appeal for forgiveness for mendacity in a good cause. Then I began to walk slowly forward gently swinging the wand from side to side to point at this or that. When I had gone all the way around, I shook my head.
“Nothing, I’m afraid.” Following Grazia out, I pointed across to the central door on the right side, between the two rooms of books and opposite the staircase. Whatever lay behind it could have no windows. “What’s in there?”
“The way to the mezzanine.” She was enjoying herself, managing to forget her grief. She swept across in her mourning gown and opened the door to reveal narrow stairs, dimly illuminated by the two open doors at the top. Up we went.
The female servants’ dormitory was at the front. It was a very fine bedroom, and at the moment Noelia had it to herself, except that it was also being used to store furniture. I dowsed my way around and found nothing suspicious. What sort of a Neptune was I supposed to look for? A book about Roman gods? A statue? A painting? Fiery spiders?
The other mezzanine room had been Danese’s before his eviction. It had a fine view of the garden and the iron grille over the window matched Grazia’s on the other side. The furnishings were superb, and the paintings on the walls cried out for study and appreciation. The only criticism I could have leveled at it as a room was that its ceiling was no more than about nine feet high, which I found oppressive after Ca’ Barbolano. Even in Ca’ Sanudo, the altana and piano nobile ceilings were at least twice that. But Danese had indeed done well for himself, and I wondered what quarters he had enjoyed at Celeseo, for the mainland palaces of the rich sprawl far larger than those in cramped Venice.
“You had better dowse this room well, messer,” Grazia proclaimed, with an attempt at aristocratic hauteur. “Who knows what missing jewels it may contain?”
