by Dave Duncan
It had been opened, of course, although I recognized Violetta’s scent on the paper, and he would have done so also. The contents were terse:
Lover-The ball is canceled. Come and entertain me tonight.
– V
Normally I would be down the hall in my bedroom and half changed within a couple of heartbeats of reading that invitation, but tonight I had far too much work to do and too much sleep to catch up. I wrote my regrets on the same paper, sealed it with my signet, and went in search of Bruno, who was always happy to help, just to justify his existence.
I barely needed to explain. He sniffed the paper, grinned, and made the signs for woman-belong-Alfeo. I nodded and off he went. Sending so much beef to deliver so small a load seemed inefficient. I felt I should have enclosed a gift-something pretty, like the Michelangelo David.
Now I had no more excuses to delay tackling the Maestro’s latest prophecy. I brought light and ink and the book to the slate-topped table. It was not as illegible as I had feared, which, as I told you, implied that the events it foretold would not be long delayed. When I had deciphered it, I didn’t like it one bit.
Dark deeds, dark night, but bright the gold.
Gold rains brighter than the eyes of the serpent;
Eyes and legs a-bleeding on the campo,
So unthinkable love will triumph from afar.
Just then Corrado tapped on the door, come to tell me that supper was ready. Before I reached the dining room, I was brought up short by Bruno’s smile, looming over me like a rainbow. He had brought back a reply from Violetta.
Cedet amor rebus, res age, tutus eris.
– V
Which means roughly that business keeps one safe from love-ominous talk when one’s lover is a courtesan. I hoped that it was just another literary conceit I ought to know. (It is, I later learned, an apothegm by Ovid.)
To my astonishment, I found the Maestro already at the table. His eyes were bloodshot and I guessed he had a raging headache, but he was not as haggard as I expected after two foreseeings in two days.
The dining hall would seat fifty at a pinch, but only the Maestro and I eat in it. There I can dream that my family’s fortunes never sank in the Aegean with the fall of Crete, for our dishes are finest porcelain, our knives and spoons are chased silver, as are the special forks with which we lift the food to our mouths, a custom foreigners find very strange. Colored candles burn in golden candlesticks on the snowy linen cloth between the crystal flagons and enameled beakers.
Normally I feast and my master nibbles, but that night I also had to talk; Mama’s superb risotto of Rovigo veal stuffed with oysters grew cold before I was half-done. I told of my visit to the doge, my exchange with Isaia, and the bizarre English couple. Then, I hoped, I was free to eat.
Alas, no. “You saw the latest quatrain?”
I recited what I thought it said and he nodded grumpily.
“It seems to predict violence,” I said. “Whose eyes and legs are going to bleed, do you suppose?”
“Mine. From now on go armed and take Bruno with you everywhere.”
“You are serious?” I am his eyes and his legs, but I had never heard him admit that before.
“Have you ever known me to make a joke?”
“No, master.” I suspect he tried one seventy years ago and nobody laughed. “Why me?” Not getting an answer, I continued. “What else? Unthinkable love? A rain of gold? Eyes of the serpent?”
Seemingly he could make no more sense of the quatrain than I could. He poked more food around his plate aimlessly. He had eaten almost nothing. “You know who is carried shoulder high around the Piazza San Marco, scattering gold coins to the mob.”
“Yes.” I reached for the wine glass I had been neglecting. He had just described the installation of a new doge. “Isaia confirms that the procurator was murdered. Do you seriously believe you can unmask the culprit before the Ten take you in for questioning?”
He did not tell me what he believed, and it was what the Council of Ten believed-and would do about it-that mattered. I tried again.
“You think there was a botched attempt to assassinate the doge?”
Maestro Nostradamus thumped the table furiously with a tiny fist. “I told you this morning that His Serenity was appealing for our help, didn’t I? Whether someone is trying to murder him or he was just impetuous, he met with foreigners in a private house. If his enemies have the votes, that is enough cause to depose him, or worse. Any two of the three state prosecutors can indict him. He cannot hope to keep the Ten out of this, but the way the matter is presented may swing the vote.”
I murmured, “Yes, master,” and returned to my veal and oysters.
“There is more than one way to reverse an emperor. Tell me again about your tarot reading last night.”
I was both surprised and gratified, for I suspect that tarot is the one occult skill at which I can better him. I went over my reading again.
“As you say, master, it may be hinting that the doge was the intended victim,” I admitted, refilling my glass. “In spite of what you think of my humor, I do think that Death reversed was Circospetto ; Raffaino Sciara just looks too much like Trump XIII. He might have brought death and in the end he did not. Justice reversed meant my night in jail, I suppose, or does it mean a murderer getting off scot-free?”
“I think the jail. Your deck must be well attuned at present.”
From him any praise must be counted fulsome. Pleased, I said, “I can fetch it and try a more detailed reading.”
He shook his head like a chicken ruffling its feathers. “Not tonight. You must never overwork a tarot deck.”
Never having been told that before, I waited for more and there was no more. He reached for his staff. I helped him rise and he leaned on my shoulder all the way across the salone. He usually returns to the atelier after supper and either reads or lectures me until late, but that night he headed straight to his bedchamber and disappeared with a muttered Godbless!
Now was the moment I had mentally set aside to consult my tarot deck again. Why had the Maestro forbidden me to do so? The only reason he had ever given me for letting a deck rest was that it had started reporting obvious nonsense, and mine was certainly not doing that. What else could I do to help solve the murder? I could not use the crystal as he could.
I could summon Putrid. That was why the old rascal had not wanted me to lay out a tarot spread. My tarot was painted long ago by an artist of superlative skill and subtlety; since then the fears and yearnings of many owners have infused it with deep empathy. If I tried to consult it when I had a fiend in my immediate future, I might ruin it beyond repair.
The Maestro was a murder suspect and had to clear his name. He dare not risk asking a demon for help, but he would let me take that risk, because I needed help less than he did. Another reason was that I was less important and so, in a non-facetious way, relatively innocent. Summoning a minor fiend can stir up a major one instead. You never see senior condottieri fighting in the front ranks; they send the cannon fodder forward and shout encouragement from the rear, but any demon that managed to enslave the great Nostradamus would be capable of performing enormous mischief through him. All the legions of hell would rally to try it. I was mere cannon fodder.
I locked the door, then sat down at my desk and readied pen and paper. A summoning needs careful planning. Even my trivial fiend Putrid can be a terrifying apparition, and to panic and forget what comes next or change plans halfway through could be disastrous. It would do no good to demand, “Tell me who killed Procurator Orseolo,” or even “Procurator Bertucci Orseolo” because there might have been several men of that name in the history of the Republic. And the fiend could just reply “his doctor,” which might be true in a narrow sense. After much thought I wrote down two questions, plus the command of dismissal, which demonologists have been known to forget in emergencies, although none ever more than once. Purists conduct their summonings in Latin. The Maestro says that the
fiends themselves don’t care what language you use and it is better to be right than classy.
I moved a chair over to the big mirror in the wall of books. Mirrors themselves are no more magical than crystal balls, but both can be used for occult purposes, like the piece of chalk I used to draw a pentacle around myself and the chair. I sat down, tried some deep breaths, and then uttered my first call, summoning Putrid (not his real name) to be manifest in the mirror before me.
The room cooled and dimmed. It always shocks me when mere words can do that. Even the flames in the fireplace seemed to shrink, and I wished I had brought a lamp inside the pentacle with me.
I summoned a second time. Now the mirror showed very little more than my own white face with darkness behind it, and the air was filled with a nauseating stench. Think of every bad smell you have ever experienced-bad fish, cesspools, warm pig dung-add them all together and multiply by thirteen. Gagging, anxious to get the seance over with, I spoke the words a third time.
My scared face in the mirror blurred and melted into a reddish globe, which shrank back and resolved as the iris of an eye. The surrounding space cleared into scaly, scabrous flesh of an indeterminate green-purple color, like a very ripe bruise. The monster moved farther back yet, until a second eye came into view. Whatever shade or shape they choose for the rest of themselves, fiends always seem to prefer red eyes. Putrid had begun his apparition the size of a house, and even now I could see only part of his face peering in, huge as the mirror was. The less I saw the better.
“You!” he said. He slobbered and his breath stank even worse than the rest of him. “I will eat you.”
I peered at my script in the feeble firelight.
“You have a nice smell of fresh sin on you, sier Alfeo Zeno,” the fiend said chattily. “You should have been shriven before you called me. And your harlot also I will eat.”
Another rule is that you never listen to fiends.
“Putrid, I command you by your true name that if there was no murderer present on San Valentine’s Eve last in the room in this city where Ottone Imer the attorney displayed books to certain potential buyers, that you instantly quit this realm and return to the place from whence you came.”
The fiend coughed, spraying the inside of the mirror with spit and almost choking me with putrescent fumes. My skin crawled.
“That’s clever,” he growled. “Thought that up all by yourself, did you, Alfeo?” He was still there, which disposed of any last hope that the procurator’s death had been an accident.
“Look, Alfeo,” the fiend said. “Violetta with her customers. Let me show you what she does, Alfeo. Look!”
I did not look. “Putrid, I command you by your true name that until and only until I clap my hands three times you show me in this mirror before me the murder committed by the murderer who was present on San Valentine’s Eve last in the room in this city where Ottone Imer the attorney displayed books to certain potential buyers, and I further command you by your true name that when and only when I clap my hands three times that you instantly quit this realm and return to the place from whence you came.”
“Damn you,” the fiend muttered, but the hideous images faded from the mirror.
I was staring down into a tent. It was dim, lit by two small lamps suspended from the ridge pole, but luxuriously carpeted and furnished with elaborate chests, a divan, a silver ewer and basin. Steel mail and a sword hung on a stand by the entrance. Seemingly right below me, a man sat cross-legged on a cushion under the lamps, reading. I could see that the writing was Arabic, and needed no demon to advise me that I was spying on one of the sultan’s generals. His face was hidden from me by a turban shaped like a giant pumpkin, much bigger than his head, but he wore a sleeveless tunic and a complicated, multicolored skirt that barely reached his knees. He could not be the sultan himself-unlike his warlike ancestors, he stays home in safety in Constantinople, and he would command far grander quarters if he did venture into the field-but someone of importance. What was Putrid playing at? What loophole had I left in my instructions?
The man looked up, frowning and tilting his head as if listening to something. He was dusky and weathered; he had silver streaks in his beard, but his face was lean, vulpine, and still dangerous.
The flap lifted to admit a second man. He was young, short but heavyset, swarthy and bearded, and he wore very similar garb. He salaamed to the general. There must be millions like him in the Ottoman Empire, from Hungary to the Persian Gulf, from Libya to the Caucasus-fierce Muslims all, fanatically loyal to their sultan-but very few of those would have a fiend sitting on one shoulder as this one did. In shape the horror resembled a tailless rat with red eyes and a grin that showed sharp teeth, but its texture was slug-like, bluish and slimy.
The general had risen, but he clearly did not register the fiend, because he listened calmly to whatever the visitor said. I could not hear a word and would not have understood it if I had. The general salaamed in response to whatever message or instructions he had just received. He went over to the portable table with the ewer and basin and there proceeded to wash his hands. The visitor watched, smiling contentedly, while the fiend hugged itself in glee and chomped its teeth.
I still had no idea what was going on; I just knew that I could not approve of anything that a demon enjoyed so much. No doubt there are possessed walking the streets of Christendom, too, even here in the Republic. I was identifying this one and his rider only because I was seeing them through Putrid’s eyes.
Hands washed, the general returned to the center of the tent, knelt down with his back to his guest, and began to pray in the Muslims’ fashion, bending to touch the rug with his forehead, leaning back to raise his arms. To my astonishment, the fiend disappeared. The visitor did not seem to notice its absence any more than he had shown awareness of its presence earlier. What surprised me was that the Muslim’s prayers had dispelled it at least as effectively as a Christian’s would. Was the name of Allah as effective as the name of Christ? That was certainly not what the Church taught. If the unbelievers worshipped the Antichrist, how could their prayers banish demons? I would be burned as a heretic if I ever suggested such a thing.
The fiends must be trying to deceive me.
The general ended his prayers and the demon reappeared where it had been before. The general sat back on his heels, his visitor walked across the carpet to him, looped a cord around his neck, and strangled him. The fiend jumped up and down with joy as the general thrashed in his death agonies. I may have cried out in horror, but if so no one noticed. I had asked to see a murder, hadn’t I? Putrid had shown me the wrong one, perhaps the murderer’s first murder, his initiation.
When the assassin was certain his victim was dead, he drew his sword. At that point, I admit, I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, the corpse on the floor was headless and a blood-spattered turban lay empty and collapsed beside it. The visitor seemed neither upset nor especially pleased by his gruesome task, nor by the weighty leather bag he held. He was possessed, after all, and no doubt believed he was loyally carrying out his sultan’s orders. He probably was. Turning his back on his grisly work, he headed for the door-and his demon looked up and saw me.
I could not hear its shrieks of rage, but I could see them. The possessed turned again and returned to stand directly below my vantage point, but now his face was blank, his eyes lifeless. His passenger was dancing with fury, almost glowing with it, making clawing gestures at me and becoming larger, its spongy flesh swelling like dough, its eyes flaming redder. I was seized by a terrible, paralyzing, horror that it would leap out of the mirror at me.
I clapped my hands three times. The image blurred, steadied slightly, and then faded-all except those two red eyes. I yelled out the words of dismissal, but of course those were addressed to Putrid and I did not know the name of this other fiend, to which it had betrayed me. For a moment the mirror showed the two hate-filled red eyes superimposed on me and the atelier behind me. Then, mercifully, th
ey disappeared.
10
S ummonings always leave me feeling sick and unclean. Even after I had replaced the furniture, wiped out the pentagram with my dustrag, and burned my notes in the fireplace, I was still shaking like a fatal case of palsy. I kept wondering whether a hateful little slug fiend was now perched on my shoulder, invisible and gloating as it planned the horrors it would make me perform.
Back in my room, I stripped and washed myself all over with cold water. Tired though I was, memories of the ordeal would keep me awake for a long time, and I had an invitation to call on a lady who thought nothing of playing all night and sleeping by day. I dressed in my shabby burglar clothes, doused the light, and prepared to go visiting. Of course I was disobeying the Maestro’s orders by leaving the house unarmed, but I could neither ask Bruno to accompany me on my tryst nor risk my death-defying leap while encumbered with a rapier. I stopped worrying about being murdered when I opened the window and discovered that the stormy weather had returned, blustering rain about, making roofs slippery, and plotting to throw acrobats off their timing. Very likely the Maestro had misinterpreted his bleeding eyes-and-legs vision and it had nothing to do with assault. I hesitated, but not for long. I needed Violetta too much just then, and not for lust. I needed comfort and understanding and her arms around me, her warmth and love.
