The Alchemist's Apprentice aa-1

by Dave Duncan

  I shrugged. “Then I must take the matter higher up.”

  The watchdog’s manner grew even chillier. “Take it as high as you wish.”

  I produced my letter and held it where he could read the inscription. “Is this high enough?”

  He had seemed pale before. He turned ashen and stumbled to his feet.

  “Run,” I said sweetly, and he very nearly did.

  In moments I was ushered into the private office of Attorney Imer, which was dim, cramped, and untidy. The owner stood beside a desk heaped with ribbon-tied bundles of paper. Briefs seldom are. He was tall, severe, fortyish, and had an unfortunate tick at the left corner of his mouth. I wondered if it appeared when he addressed the bench, or if only mention of the Ten set it off.

  I bowed. “At the lustrissimo ’s service.”

  “My clerk said you had a letter to show me?”

  He did not invite me to sit, so I sat. He remained standing, eyes icy, mouth twitching. He looked down his chin at me. Lawyers are very highly thought of in Venice, especially by other lawyers.

  I said, “My master was the first physician to attend Procurator Orseolo when he was stricken, two nights ago. He was disturbed by the symptoms he observed-so much so that he believes it may be his duty to draw them to the attention of the Ten. He takes this step reluctantly, as you may imagine, knowing the suffering it may cause to innocent people. He is aware that there may be other explanations for what he saw, and invites you to go and discuss the matter with him.”

  Roses bloomed on the attorney’s cheeks. “Blackmail? He plans to extort money from me?”

  I have never known the Maestro to turn away money, but to say so just then would have been indiscreet. “ Lustrissimo, I would not serve a master who committed such crimes.”

  “You prefer selling horoscopes?” Evidently Imer was a skeptic, like the doge. “Yes, the procurator took ill here, in my house. He died at home, I assume in his own bed. He was old. Old men do that. What is left to discuss?”

  I stood up. “Evidence of poison. I thank you for your time.” I started to turn, then had second thoughts. “Just out of personal curiosity…Is the servant who poured the wine your employee, or did you hire him for the evening?”

  “You can take your personal curiosity to hell with you, boy, and keep it there.”

  “And the man with the big nose?”

  The attorney’s mouth twitched violently four times. “Let me see that letter!”

  I passed it over. It was not sealed. He twitched six times while reading it. “Extortion! If your master wants to come here and ask some questions on a professional matter, I shall try to make time to see him. Ask my clerk to set up an appointment.”

  I shook my head. “My master has difficulty walking, sir. My orders are to take you back to visit with him or else drop his letter in the bocca di leone. You may come and watch me do so if you wish. My gondola is waiting.”

  “Blackmail, I say!”

  “May the Lord be with you, lustrissimo.” I held out my hand for the letter.

  “Very well. I will come with you, so I can personally caution Doctor Nostradamus that he is violating serious laws.”

  He shooed me out ahead of him in case I tried to rummage through his briefs.

  Imer might be doing well for an attorney, but the Ca’ Barbolano overwhelms almost anyone. Sheer size, to start with. In a city squeezed onto a hundred man-made islands, space is the ultimate luxury and the Maestro’s salone is enormous, stretching the length of the building. Huge mirrors alternate along the walls with paintings by Veronese and Tintoretto, chandeliers spread crystal foliage overhead, and the inhabitants on view are built to scale. Michelangelo’s David from Florence stands nearest the door. Beyond him are Sansovino’s Mars and Neptune from the giants’ staircase in the Doges’ Palace, and the Laocoon from Rome. More titanic sculptures loom beyond these. All of them are copies carved in chalk, but the ones I can vouch for are very good copies; the rest are certainly impressive.

  Ottone Imer made a cynical effort to shrug off the vista he saw from the doorway, no doubt assuming that Maestro Nostradamus could not possibly own all this and his real quarters were probably some servant’s kennel under the roof. But when I showed him into the atelier, its display of books, charts, quadrants, alembics, globes, armillary sphere, and the rest told him at once whose territory he was on. There was no one there. I gave him a moment to gape at it all. First impressions last, my master says.

  Belief begins with the wish, is another of his.

  I conducted Imer across to the fireplace and the two green velvet chairs facing the window, the two reserved for visitors.

  “The Maestro will be here directly.” I went to the red chair, adjusted its position slightly, moved the candelabra out of the way, looked past our guest, and said, “ Lustrissimo Imer, master.”

  “Good of you to come, lustrissimo. My legs are-”

  Imer almost jumped out his seat. The door was across the room to his left, in plain view so he knew it had not opened, and the old man had not been there a few moments before.

  Another cheap trick, alas. The old mountebank can move quietly when he wants, even with his staff. He would have had Corrado or Christoforo watching for our return. The wall of books is divided in two by a central alcove, which contains a huge wall mirror-a beautiful piece if your taste runs to the syrupy, being oval in shape, with a wide frame of mosaic cherubs and flowers. It turns on a pivot, providing access to the dining room-not truly a secret door, just an inconspicuous one.

  He greeted his visitor with a twisted bow. I saw him comfortably seated and leaned his staff against the fireplace where he could reach it. He enjoys deference when we are alone and insists on it when we have company. Then I went to sit at the desk, where I could take notes if required or just watch the visitor’s face.

  Imer was scowling. “Trickery!”

  The Maestro smiled ingratiatingly. “Of course, but effective.” When he wants to, he can seem very old and small and vulnerable. “My sympathy on your supper party the other night. A most unfortunate-”

  “Your apprentice threatened to denounce me to the Ten. I am contemplating lodging a complaint of attempted extortion.”

  Without turning to look at me, the Maestro said, “Alfeo, did you threaten the learned attorney?”

  “No, master. I asked him if he would help you clear up a mystery before innocent people became involved. He agreed to come and see you.” Just as I had agreed to go with Raffaino Sciara.

  Imer’s mouth twitched. “Criminal investigation is the responsibility of the state inquisitors, nothing to do with you!”

  “We all have a duty to report evidence of crime,” the Maestro said. “Are you sure there was a crime? Let me explain. When the procurator was overcome, I hurried to his aid as fast as I could. I detected symptoms characteristic of a certain poison. However-” He raised a tiny hand to forestall an interruption. “The substance in question is also a potent physic. The procurator was old and perhaps forgetful. If he accidentally took his medicine twice, or if he had an unusually severe reaction to the drug, which is possible, or if he had just opened a fresh preparation that happened to be a little stronger than intended…then there was no crime. We need to know if the procurator’s own physician had prescribed this particular physic for him. You must know who was sent for that night? So will you tell me the doctor’s name?”

  “And then what will you do? Blackmail him as you have tried to blackmail me?”

  The Maestro dropped his pathetic-old-man mask, shedding ten years and dropping his voice an octave. “Alfeo, you brought me an idiot. Put him back where you found him and give that letter to the lion.” He reached for his staff.

  “Wait!” Imer snapped. “I withdraw that remark. It was uncalled for and I apologize. What exactly are you proposing?”

  The Maestro leaned back and studied him with distaste. Eventually he said, “I am proposing, lustrissimo, to wind up the medical case on which I was cons
ulted in your house two nights ago. If I can satisfy myself that the patient died by misadventure, I shall so report to a certain senior magistrate who has already asked me, unofficially, to investigate the matter. It is my hope that the authorities will then be content to let the matter rest. If I do not, a formal inquiry will be launched. Then you, and I, and a great many other people, will be seriously inconvenienced, embarrassed, and disturbed. If that is what you prefer, then go away and stop wasting my time. If you want to have your skull crushed in a vise, you will be on the right track. Otherwise you should give me your full cooperation.”

  Twitch…twitch…“I shall answer any reasonable question, but without prejudice and only in strictest confidence.”

  My master sighed testily. “In a murder case? You know that you are talking rubbish. What was the name of the deceased’s personal physician?”

  Imer’s face shone red with fury. He was a curiously bad actor for a man who must impress panels of hard-bitten judges for a living. Perhaps that was why he had gone into the used book trade. “I do not know. You were there also, so why don’t you know? Senator Tirali took over, you will recall. He ordered me to go and fetch a litter! I sent a man to find one and then tried to calm the ladies, some of whom were very upset. Orseolo was taken home and everyone left.”

  “Not helpful.”

  “The best I can do. You want me to invent answers?”

  “Was anyone else taken ill?”

  “Not that I am aware of.”

  “Who was the servant who poured the wine?”

  “There were two-Giuseppe Benzon and a man I heard called Pulaki, a servant of the merchant Karagounis, whom you met. Benzon has been in my employ for four or five years.”

  “Indeed?” the Maestro murmured. “Karagounis is from Athens, in Turkish Greece. Is this Pulaki also a Greek native?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If so he would be a subject of the sultan. You let a subject of the sultan serve wine to, er, Nasone?”

  Imer had seen that one coming and did not faint or cry out with horror. He looked as if he wanted to, though. “I did not invite that man to my house! His arrival was completely unexpected.”

  “But…” The Maestro shook his oversized head sadly. “Why don’t you begin at the beginning and explain how you got yourself into this swamp?”

  By now Imer was ready to clutch at any straw. “As you know, I am an authority on old manuscripts.” Then why had he shown no special interest in the Maestro’s book collection since he came in? “The foreigner Karagounis came to me with some interesting items he wished to sell. All looted from churches and monasteries, I’m sure. Since the Turks conquered Greece and the Balkans the Church there has been…not suppressed, but it doesn’t flourish as it used to.” He babbled for a few minutes, telling us things we already knew, how foreigners were forbidden to trade, and how wonderful the Greek’s manuscripts were. “You really doubt that Meleager?”

  “Lost works by Euripides turn up all the time,” the Maestro said sourly.

  “But not with poetry like that! Several of the prospective buyers seemed to think it was genuine. It would have fetched a fortune! I couldn’t possibly afford to buy it, but I did agree to help him in return for one of the lesser pieces, which he withheld from the sale, and I intended to bid on a few of the others. I approached the top ten collectors in the Republic…”

  The Maestro turned steely-eyed at not being ranked in the top ten, but did not interrupt the flow.

  “Eight were interested enough to view the collection. Six said they would make offers. Procurator Orseolo and Senator Tirali both said they would come in person. The others appointed agents to bid for them. I asked a few friends…” Imer had invited some people he wanted to impress and his social triumph had turned into nightmare. “And yourself, Doctor.” He dried up.

  “The doge was one you had shown the books to?” the Maestro asked.

  “And his agent was there. I never expected him to come in person! He didn’t stay long.”

  “And the foreign couple who spoke French?”

  Imer shook his head. “I have no idea. They seemed to think it was a public gathering. When I realized…I ordered them to leave. The man was abusive, but they left.”

  “You offered three wines.”

  “There were to be others at supper. Karagounis provided the retsina. He said it was better than any in the city. Vile stuff. I never touch it.”

  I was careful not to show any reaction and the Maestro certainly did not, but he chased the ball.

  “Who else drank retsina?”

  “How should I know?”

  “What happened to wine that had been opened and not finished?”

  “I expect the servants stole it. They usually do.”

  “What do you know about this Karagounis?”

  The attorney squirmed. “Not very much. He is planning to marry a local girl, so he can become a resident. He is taking instruction in the Catholic faith and plans to abjure the Greek heresy…So he says. I warned him it would be better if he did not come to the viewing, but he turned up anyway.”

  “Has he chosen a bride yet?”

  “I believe so.” The attorney colored, which suggested that the bride was part of the deal, some niece or cousin, no doubt. He was not old enough to have marriageable daughters to dispose of.

  But that seemed to be that. The rest of the Maestro’s questions produced nothing of use. Imer had been dashing back and forth between his books and the main party and could not say who might have been close enough to tamper with the victim’s drink. If he was representative of the Republic’s attorneys, I hoped I would never need to sue anyone.

  “Well, we may be worrying needlessly,” the Maestro said. “I must track down the procurator’s physician. My boat is at your disposal, lustrissimo. Alfeo will come with you as a witness when you question your servant.”

  “Benzon? Why?”

  “If we learn that other people drank from the same bottle as the procurator, we can eliminate one unpleasant hypothesis.” The Maestro stretched his lips in a smile.

  The attorney grimaced as if he had a serious toothache.

  Giorgio rowed us back. He sang a couple of romantic ballads in case we wished to talk confidentially, but Imer said absolutely nothing, except to tell me Karagounis’s address when I asked for it.

  The moment we entered his chambers, he ordered the old clerk to fetch Giuseppe Benzon, an order that obviously surprised the old man. This time I was invited to sit in a client’s chair. Moving like an old man, Imer walked around the cluttered desk to his own.

  “If we frighten Benzon so much that he runs away, we shall be in grave trouble.”

  This was precisely why the Maestro had specified that Imer ask the questions, not me. I said, “You are entitled to interrogate your own servant, lustrissimo.” If the servant did flee, that admission of guilt would rescue the Maestro from suspicion, but might not help Imer much.

  Benzon was about my age, a stocky, honest-looking lad with a smear of jewelers’ rouge on his hand to suggest that he had been cleaning silverware. He looked reasonably scared already by the unexpected summons. He bowed and was told to shut the door, but not told to pull up the third chair.

  “As you know,” Imer mumbled, “one of my guests took ill two nights ago. All he had consumed in my house was some wine, and the doctors are wondering if there was something wrong with that particular bottle. Do you happen to remember which wine the procurator chose?”

  “Yes, lustrissimo. He laughed and said he would take the retsina.”

  I was already impressed by Benzon. His eyes were quick and he did not fidget.

  “Thirty-two guests and you remember what every one of them drank?”

  “No, lustrissimo. But he was only the fourth or fifth to arrive, and I never served a procurator before.” Procurators wear marvelously ornate purple robes and tippets.

  “Did anyone else take the retsina?”

  “Three or
four, lustrissimo. I had to open a second bottle.”

  Imer’s glance at me was a comment that the first bottle was therefore not available as evidence, and I nodded.

  “Pulaki brought six bottles. Where are the others?”

  “His master told him to take them when they left.”

  “Well, apprentice? Have you any questions to ask?”

  I could think of several. Being neither a state employee nor a doctor in the case, I had no right to ask any of them. Procurators do not joke with other men’s menservants.

  “My name’s Alfeo, Giuseppe.”

  Benzon eyed me uncertainly. “Yes, lustrissimo.”

  “Just Alfeo. How many glasses could you fill from a bottle?”

  “About six, if the glasses were all empty. Topping them up, I would get more, of course.”

  “That’s good. Thank you. You said the procurator laughed. Did he come alone, or who was with him?”

  “A young lady.”

  “Hot?”

  Lechery flickered in his eyes. “Fiery!”

  “Courtesan?”

  “No, er, Alfeo.”

  I met Imer’s frown. “Any idea who she was, lustrissimo?”

  He shrugged. “I forget. Granddaughter? Niece?”

  “No further questions, thank you.”

  5

  I told Giorgio the Karagounis address, which was close by, in the Greek quarter of San Giorgio dei Greci. The Greek ought to be even more susceptible to bullying than the attorney had been, but I had very little hope that these interviews of the Maestro’s were going to do any good at all. Had I been present at that book viewing and seen two people exchange glasses and one of them had then died, I would not admit to noticing anything at all-not at this late date. Had I poisoned one of the glasses myself and switched them deliberately, I would be even more taciturn. But an apprentice does what he’s told. Maybe my master would come to his senses in a day or so.

  When we arrived at the door-Giorgio knows every building in the city-I shouted up to a woman drying her hair on a second floor balcony.