by Dave Duncan
“In the loggia. He was not killed there, though.”
“And you have no idea who did this, or why?”
“Not yet. He may have been an innocent bystander caught up in the affair that Doctor Nostradamus has been investigating for us. That is the learned doctor’s belief, at any rate-that Dolfin was unfortunate enough to be handy when the person we seek wished to confound the doctor’s investigations by leaving a corpse on his doorstep. When did he leave Ca’ Sanudo?”
Only now did Zuanbattista turn around as if to inspect his audience-Vasco, the Maestro, and me. We all bowed. He did not respond, so perhaps he did not even see us. “According to my daughter, they spent a quiet evening together, just talking. They have had very little time alone to get to know each other.” Much too little, he meant. “About eight o’clock he informed her that he had a call to make. She was annoyed, of course, but he explained that he had promised to visit his mother in San Barnaba and would not be long. He assured Grazia that he had enough money to hire gondolas. About an hour later she retired and eventually went to sleep. Obviously, he had not returned by morning.”
“Your gondolier says…?”
“Nothing. Fabricio had already left to fetch my wife and me from a concert. Giro was also out.”
Gritti turned his milky blue eyes on me. “How long would it take you to get here from Ca’ Sanudo, youngster?”
The snag, of course was that Santa Maria Maddalena is in Cannaregio, north of the Grand Canal, and San Remo is south of it, in San Polo, so a pedestrian must go around by the Rialto bridge. “At night? No more than ten minutes if I managed to flag a gondola, Excellency. On foot, fifteen or twenty. If Danese was not armed, he might have taken longer to avoid the seedy areas.”
In other words, we could not tell exactly, but the timing was reasonable. San Remo was not on his shortest route to San Barnaba, but not far off it. He had arrived here about half past eight, according to Giorgio, and left before the curfew rang at nine, when Luigi was supposed to lock up. And he had died, by the Maestro’s estimate, before ten. At an unknown hour before the heavy rain started, his remains had been delivered like groceries back at the Ca’ Barbolano. Where he had died was now much more important than when. There had been time for him to walk to anywhere in the city.
“You are telling me,” Sanudo said, “that my son-in-law’s death was just one of those random killings that so grievously blight our city?”
Silence.
He was tall and doubtless still quite strong, but he was old. Despite his age, if messer Zuanbattista Sanudo were a trained fencer, I could imagine him besting Danese with a sword. Not at wrestling, though. If the fire vision had given me a true witness of events, Zuanbattista had not personally murdered his son-in-law, but he did have a potent motive and he certainly had enough money to hire bravos to do it for him. Such alley rats usually work in gangs, while pyromancy had shown only one assailant. How literally should I take those visions?
“That is one hypothesis,” Gritti conceded at last.
“But you do not believe it.” Despite his normal patrician stolidity, Zuanbattista’s craggy face flushed almost as red as his counselor’s robe. Street crime belongs to the Signori di Notte, not the Three. Gritti was investigating treason.
They stared hard at each other, those two old men, one red-robed and one black-, one tall and angular, one short and grandfatherly-at the very least they must have worked together for decades, on and off, on councils and boards and committees. For all I knew they had been friends since boyhood, yet now one must consider the possibility of arresting the other for treason. Zuanbattista had not said, Et tu, Brute? aloud, but he was looking it.
Gritti sighed. “I did not mean that. I could believe that the choice of victim was happenstance had he been found floating in a canal, but the location where the corpse was left was certainly chosen for some reason. I am honor bound to distrust the coincidence, as Nostradamus does, of a murder complicating his sensitive work for the Ten.”
Zuanbattista seemed remarkably unimpressed by that. “You will forgive me if I suggest that the choice of victim might equally be intended as a distraction to turn suspicion on my house and away from the real quarry?”
“That is another valid hypothesis, clarissimo,” Gritti agreed. “Why did you come here, though? Did you not inquire first whether he ever arrived at his mother’s house?”
The pause grew into a silence before Sanudo said, “Grazia seems to have made a mistake when she took note of madonna Agnese Correr’s address. It is somewhere in San Barnaba, but when Giro and I inquired where she told us, the lady was not known there.”
Other residents of the parish would know where she lived, but would not willingly disclose that information to strangers, especially two senior members of the government.
Gritti glanced at me. “If memory serves…?”
I sighed. “The lady’s name is Agnese Corner, not Correr.”
“A handwriting slip,” the inquisitor said soothingly. “It is not the first time those two noble patrician names have been confused. You have not met the lady?”
Zuanbattista was not deceived by the politeness. “No. The day we learned of the marriage we sent Danese off with an invitation to meet us, but she declined, pleading infirmity. Danese told us that in fact she was ashamed of her poverty and asked us to be patient while he found her some clothes worthy of his future station. And now she must be informed of her son’s death, and asked her wishes about the funeral.”
“The priest will know where she lives,” Gritti said smoothly. The Ten’s informers would know, too. “I will send word, so he can go and comfort her. It will be best if I come and make some inquiries of your household right away, lustrissimo, and get it over with. You will be returning home now, I imagine, to break the tragic news to your daughter?”
And the welcome news to your wife? Did he mean that also? Was he hinting that he could carry the entire Sanudo establishment off to the palace for interrogation? That would be how lesser folk would be treated.
Sanudo’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, we must. Can you spare a man to carry a message to His Serenity, explaining our absence?”
“Certainly. Alfeo, some paper, if you please.”
I swiftly produced pen, ink, sand, wax, and paper, laying them out on my side of the desk, because I knew Sanudo to be right-handed and he would prefer the window on his left. By the time he had settled into my chair and I had lit a candle so that he could seal his letter, the door was open again and Gritti was calling to the violet-robed Girolamo, who must have been waiting out in the salone.
Suspect number two.
Giro returned the inquisitor’s bow perfunctorily, for his eyes had already located the ominous figure in the corner. Without a word, he strode across and lifted the sheet from the face. He stood in silent contemplation for a moment, then sank to his knees and prayed. I looked thoughtfully at the Maestro, but he was studying Gritti, who in turn was watching me, and seemed amused by something. Who could tell what might amuse such a man?
Suspect number two: Girolamo would certainly have a better chance in a brawl with Danese than his father would, but I would still have bet against him, especially if Danese had been armed with a sword and he only had a cudgel, as my pyromancy suggested. Like his father, Giro could afford to send hired help in his stead. Again, motive was easy enough to find. Not likely politics, I decided, nor even money. Zaccaria Contarini would have commanded a huge dowry to marry Grazia, but Danese Dolfin would undoubtedly have had to settle for much less. But passion? Had he in truth been Giro’s lover? Jealousy and betrayal have triggered many a violent death.
Girolamo finished his prayer and rose. When he turned around, his expression was as impassive as ever, and yet there was a shine to his eyes that suggested he had been weeping, or very close to it. The man of ice was melting. “Who did it and why?”
Gritti explained again.
The Maestro still sat in his red chair, clutching his staff as if h
e were some evil, wizened little tree elf, eyes missing nothing. I was wondering what he had seen or worked out to make him so sure of Algol’s identity. It sounded as if he needed more evidence and gathering evidence is my job, but how was I supposed to do that with Vasco on my heels all day? My stomach muttered something about breakfast. I had not even had a chance to shave.
Zuanbattista sealed his note with wax and his signet ring and rose to hand it to Gritti. Then he turned to Nostradamus. “I understand that he had no male kin, so it is up to us to organize the funeral. I will send for the body.” He looked to me. “Zeno, do you know where madonna Corner Dolfin lives?”
“I know where she lived six years ago, clarissimo.” It was longer than that since I had spoken with the lady, and the prospect of breaking such terrible news to her did not appeal at all. I could, of course, just find Father Equiano or another priest and drop the dread burden on his shoulders. On the other hand, I did want to know if Danese had gone there after he stole my sword.
“Grazia says you were his best friend. It would be a favor to her and all of us if you were to break the news to his family.”
I rejected the temptation to tell him that his late son-in-law had been an egregious liar, but I did make a note to clarify that with the inquisitor.
“Alfeo can do you a much bigger favor than that, Your Excellency,” the Maestro said with a smirk I had long since learned to distrust. “I mean no personal offense when I say this. Please believe that I have only your well-being at heart. I am now convinced that there is a curse upon your house and it is the cause of all of your troubles.”
Ottone Gritti tensed like a hound scenting game. Everyone else just looked stunned and I am sure that included me.
“What sort of curse?” the inquisitor demanded. “You talk of witchcraft?”
I had a very uneasy feeling that Nostradamus was talking nonsense just to get his own back for Gritti’s bullying. If so, he was playing a very dangerous game and I might be the first to suffer for it.
“No,” he said solemnly. “Or rather, yes, but not witchcraft performed by any living witch, no one within your reach. I don’t know where it came from. I suspect it is ancient, dating back several centuries. Have you ever heard of a jinx, Your Excellencies?”
“There’s a bird by that name,” Zuanbattista said. “I saw a caged one in Constantinople.”
“Interesting,” the Maestro murmured, staring at him. “But probably irrelevant. Yes, too late. These misfortunes predate your visit there. The jynx is a type of woodpecker found in the Balkans, among other places. When disturbed, it will turn its head around to an extreme degree and hiss at the intruder. It has long been used in witchcraft as a means to lay misfortune on people. Indeed, it has given its name to such curses, so if I say that your current problems stem from a jinx, clarissimo, I do not imply that you have a dead bird hung around your neck.”
“Just what do you imply, then?” the big man demanded angrily.
“That there is some cursed item in your house that is spreading evil as the miasma of a fetid marsh spreads fever. It is a talisman in reverse, a source of misfortune instead of good. Whatever it is, it should be hunted down and destroyed. Alfeo can at least identify the source of the evil for you.”
Zuanbattista’s beard writhed in disbelief. “And how does he do that?”
I raised my chin so I would look competent and fearless, instead of just bewildered.
“He knows what to look for,” the Maestro said. “He will be guided by the man from Vicenza.”
I still did not understand, but I could guess that he wanted a free hand without Filiberto Vasco underfoot, and the only way to get rid of him was to get rid of me. I just hoped the separation would not be too permanent.
Sanudo glared at me, dropping his patrician inscrutability. “When was Zeno consecrated bishop or elected state inquisitor? Have I not enough troubles that I have to put up with him again?”
“There is no harm in letting the lad try,” Ottone Gritti said with a benevolent smile. “I shall be most interested to see how he goes about it.”
Sanudo sighed. “Very well. If I must carry the camel, I will not count the fleas.”
20
D own at the watergate, Ottone Gritti was still very much in charge. He bid farewell to the Sanudos, promising to follow them shortly. Had he written it in fire, the message could have been no plainer: If you murdered Dolfin, fly for your lives. A less-exalted family would not have been given such a chance, but some senior patricians guilty of major crimes have been allowed to go into voluntary exile and return when the fuss has died down, after having negotiated a massive fine. There were extenuating circumstances when the victim had been a gigolo and legally a rapist. There was a second message, too. Treason was much worse than murder, and Gritti would not extend such mercy to suspected traitors. He must be very sure that the Sanudos were not involved in espionage. What did he know that I did not?
After we had bowed the Sanudos away along the canal, he turned to me.
“ Sier Alfeo, I should have asked the good doctor this, but he has obviously trained you well, so give me your expert opinion. You mentioned internal bleeding. How much external bleeding occurred, would you estimate?”
For a man in his position to flatter a youngster like me in this way was so out of character it was almost farce. It alarmed me greatly.
“I am no expert, Your Excellency! I am certainly not a doctor. Your own opinion on such matters would be worth far more than mine would. But since you honor me by asking, I note that the corpse’s garments were drenched with blood, so whatever surface he was lying on must have been stained at the very least. The mud on the rest of his clothing indicates that he died outdoors, so the storm may have washed away the evidence by now.”
He nodded gravely, as if my words were a promulgation from the University of Padua. “That is a danger, certainly, but the matter is important.” He turned to one of his fanti, the same Marco Martini who had summoned the Maestro two days before. The other, a taller man of about the same middle years, I later learned was Amedeo Bolognetti.
“Marco,” Gritti said, “I want you to scout the parish. Search the calli and campi for bloodstains. The dead man bled to death a few hours before the rain started. Amedeo, deliver this letter to the Signoria and then find out from the chiefs if any bloodstains have been reported in the city. Report to me at Ca’ Donato Maddalena.”
They boarded the government gondola and their boatmen pushed off, letting Marco disembark at the end of the calle. That left Gritti, Vasco, a surprised-looking Giorgio, and me.
The old man smiled fondly. “You will not mind company when you call on madonna Corner?”
Of course I bowed acquiescence. “Your support is welcome and an honor, Excellency. Campo San Barnaba, please,” I told Giorgio.
Gritti boarded and placed himself in the felze. When I tried to join him he waved me forward. “You sit there. The vizio is too conspicuous.”
That left me out in the drizzle, of course, facing Gritti and a smug Vasco under the felze, but in truth the rain was a relief after the long months of heat. Soon we were gliding along, as Giorgio’s oar stroked the rain-dappled waters. On either hand the centuries flowed by-a fourteenth-century building, a fifteenth, then a twelfth, a modern sixteenth. Soon we should start on the seventeenth, which would seem odd. Gondolas passed us and followed us. Even on such a drab day, gondoliers sang on the water and canaries in high windows.
“I should explain, clarissimo,” I said, “that I never counted Danese Dolfin among my friends. He certainly never behaved like a friend to me. Why he told his wife otherwise I cannot imagine. He must have lied about his mother’s name and address, too.”
“Some liars need no reason, alas,” the inquisitor said. “They seem to feel they have failed if they have to speak the truth.” Probably nobody knew more about the subject than he, but he was still playing his jocular, grandfatherly role. “Tell me how one goes about identifying a jinx.
Should you not have brought some equipment with you? A bible? A trained cat?”
No scribes stood ready to write down my words. If I asked him, he would assure me that they would not be quoted against me, but that would not stop him from asking the same questions again in more stressful circumstances-as, for example, when my wrists were tied behind me and taking my weight as I dangled on the strappado.
Fortunately I had worked out by then what the Maestro had hinted. I wanted to strangle him for not telling me sooner, because he had known something I had not, but perhaps he was not as sure as he had pretended.
“If my master meant what I think he did, Your Excellency, then I can just point and you will understand. If I am wrong, then I won’t be able to identify anything. Nostradamus is often needlessly cryptic, as you know.”
He chuckled. “I think you are picking up the habit. Tell me about the fire elementals.”
Warning bells rang.
“According to theory, Your Excellency, one would identify the source of evil by invoking fire elementals, which are-”
“Morally neutral. I read your master’s testimony. I am not certain Holy Mother Church agrees with his interpretation, but carry on. What is involved?”
“Much hocus-pocus, but basically it meant sitting in front of a fire and daydreaming.”
“And what did you see?”
He sounded genuinely interested. I am sure he was, because almost anything I said could be taken as an admission of witchcraft. I reminded myself that I was dealing with a fanatic. “I saw many things. Shoes and olive trees, galleons and bell towers. Women. Just daydreams. No demons, no Algol.” To confess that I had seen the murder before it happened would be fatal: Exodus 22:28, Deuteronomy 18:10.
“Who killed Dolfin?”
“I have no idea, clarissimo.”
“But you have suspicions. Tell me.”
I was flattered that he thought my opinion worth listening to, but a friendly chat with Ottone Gritti was a romp with a full-grown leopard. “Any man can be stabbed in the back. But the sword that killed Danese was his sword, legally mine of course; I mean he was wearing it. Only an agile and strong opponent could disarm him in a hand-to-hand struggle. When he stole my rapier, he should have taken my dagger as well!” I patted it, dangling at my right side. My sword was back in place on my left, and comforting. “The sword was left behind, so the motive was not theft, and a random killer would not have known to dump his body at Ca’ Barbolano.”
