by Dave Duncan
“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, they disappeared.
10
Summonings 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.
So I scrambled out on the ledge and then went through the nasty contortions required to replace the bars, for I never leave the window unguarded in the night. That was not the easiest of maneuvers in such weather and the leap in darkness wrung a prayer out of me. Obviously I survived, although I banged my left knee on the tiles.
A light burned in her room, for she never sleeps in complete darkness—unless her current companion insists on it, I suppose—and I could see that she was alone. She stirred while I was undressing.
“Alfeo?” she murmured drowsily.
“Are you expecting someone else?” I asked, hoping the answer was No.
“No. The nobility are in mourning.”
I wasn’t. I slid between the sheets, into her arms, her warmth.
Jolted awake, she said, “Eek! You are freezing!”
“Only on the outside. I love you. I need you.”
“I’m here, love. What’s wrong? You’re trembling!”
“Rough night. Just hold me.”
The night fled, the lamp burned out, and chinks of daylight came to smile through chinks in the drapes. My knee hurt. The rest of me felt much better.
“Time to go,” I whispered.
“Not yet.” Helen stirred sleepily. “I have something to tell you.”
“Speak, goddess.”
The Ten would start asking questions soon. Thanks to Putrid I knew the murderer must be either Alexius Karagounis or his Moorish servant, but finding admissible proof would take time.
Violetta sighed and rolled on her back. “I went and saw Bianca Orseolo yesterday.”
I heard Minerva in her voice. “You did what?”
“You heard me. Ca’ Orseolo is in mourning, so after you left I went calling in my nun costume, to offer comf
ort.”
“But she saw you at the—”
“She did not see me at the supper. She may have seen me, but she did not look at me, because she was busy tending her grandfather and I am a courtesan. Proper young girls ignore such women. She did not recognize me yesterday because I was a nun, completely different.”
“You think that costume you were wearing would fool—”
“Stop interrupting. There are nuns who wear habits like that. I got in to see her when nobody else would have done, except other family members, of which she has none. We had a long talk. Bianca had more opportunity to see the crime committed than anyone else did, because she was at her grandfather’s side all the time.”
“She also had the best opportunity,” I said. “All she had to do was hand him the wrong glass and he would never have questioned. Did she do it?”
“I don’t know.” Violetta rarely admits ignorance. As Minerva, she is much brainier than I am. As Aspasia, she is unsurpassed at judging people. “She is extremely upset by her grandfather’s death…almost too upset. She wept in my arms. So much sorrow may be a sign of guilt, either guilt because she killed him or guilt because she is glad he died, I don’t know yet. You and I are to go and see her later today.”
This needed a lot of rational analysis and rational analysis was hard to achieve while cuddling the finest courtesan in the Republic—which duty compelled me to do at that moment, of course, to keep this witness cooperative. It crossed my mind that few men enjoyed better working conditions.
I made an effort to concentrate. “You told her my name?”
“No. I said I knew a man who was investigating the possibility that her grandfather had been murdered, and asked if I might bring you to ask her a few questions. The funeral is this morning. We are to see her after that, around noon.”
I gulped. “You want me to pretend to be an agent of the Ten? I don’t know what the penalty for—”
“Hope you never find out,” Aspasia said coldly. “I made no such claim and the city is stuffed tight with the Three’s spies, as you well know. If Bianca assumes that you are one of them, her mistake is quite unrelated to anything I said.”
The doge had asked me to investigate the procurator’s death, but he would deny doing so if the Three asked him.
“Did Bianca have a motive?”
Helen’s dark eyes looked at me under divine eyelashes. “I don’t want to talk any more. Kiss me.”
The Maestro watched with disapproval as I laid a tray on my side of the desk. “Why are you limping?”
“I banged my knee on a tile.”
“What did you learn?”
“Have you eaten?” I bowled a hot roll across to him; he caught it before it went over the edge. “The murderer is a Muslim, presumably an agent of the sultan, and probably the servant who poured the wine. He could be the Greek or, more likely I should say the man posing as a Greek, the book dealer, Karagounis. How old is he?”
“About forty.”
“The man I saw was in his twenties.”
“Start at the beginning.”
I did. Between sips of my khave—a hot, black drink recently introduced from Turkey, becoming very popular—I continued through the middle and stopped when I got to the end.
The Maestro did not look happy. “You witnessed an execution. No doubt the general was a janissary, but it wouldn’t matter—any servant of the sultan, from infantryman to ambassador or vizier, is a kapikulu, a slave, and when the sultan sends his chaush with an order that the man deliver his own head, then the order is obeyed without complaint or resistance. The chaush arrives with a bowstring, a sword, and a bag. No matter how high they rise in the state, kapikullari owe their lives to the sultan.”
“Why did he wash his hands?”
“I have no idea. You are in grave danger. The fiend that saw you may be much stronger than the guide you were using. It may have managed to open a portal to you. You must go and make confession right away.”
One of the advantages of living in San Remo is Father Farsetti. Other priests might report me to the Holy Office, but in Venice the priests are elected by the parishioners, subject to the patriarch’s veto, and the good folk of San Remo had chosen a practical, broad-minded man. Even so, I wondered uneasily how long it would take to say a million Aves. That was what he had threatened me with the last time I confessed to practicing demonology.
“If you insist.”
“I do insist! I assume the funeral is today?”
“Violetta says the service will be held this morning, but I haven’t finished reporting. I have a second suspect to offer—Bianca, the sweet child you overlooked at the book viewing.” I told him of Violetta’s escapade. “My friend is an exceedingly shrewd judge of people,” I finished. “And if she distrusts Bianca, then we should be wise to pay heed. Or do we believe only what the fiend showed me?”
The Maestro curled his lip. “I see no reason to choose between the two testimonies just yet.”
“I assure you that the strangler I saw was no blushing Christian maiden, and I refuse to believe that a kapikulu assassin could disguise himself as one well enough to deceive her grandfather, however doddery he was getting.”
“Faugh! You blather like a lace maker. If this affair were straightforward, I could have solved it in ten minutes with the crystal. By all means fold the fair Bianca to your manly breast and dry her tears. The girl may be unduly upset because she saw the glasses being switched and chose not to intervene. Speak with her father, also, the great minister. Find out where he was on Valentine’s Eve, and his son also.”
“Benedetto. He’s supposed to be at the University of Padua.”
“It’s only twenty-five miles to Padua. He would have been sent for as soon as his grandfather fell sick.”
I failed to see how he could have switched glasses at a party in Venice when he was miles away on the mainland, but a well-behaved apprentice does not make fun of his master’s instructions. I nodded, being well behaved.
“And you still have to see Senator Tirali and his son.”
“Pasqual Tirali. Master, I admit I have personal reasons for wanting to send sier Pasqual Tirali to the galleys, but I cannot imagine his managing to poison a wine glass and switch it with another without Violetta noticing.”
“Include him anyway.” The Maestro scowled across at his bookshelves. “Bring me the Midrasch-Na-Zohar before you go. You had better start with Father Farsetti. You may be able to catch him about now. And don’t forget what I said about Bruno and your sword.”
I left him with his ferrety nose deep in the Rabbi Ben Yohai’s masterpiece. If he was willing to try cabalism, he must be really desperate.
11
Violetta and I have a longstanding agreement. I never ask her to give up her career as a courtesan, because I know how much she values the freedom it gives her, saving her from the closeted, subservient life of a “respectable” woman. Housebound boredom would kill her in a month, she says, and I believe her. Her side of the pact is never to offer me money or expensive gifts. The only exception I allow is something to wear, to mark either my birthday or the anniversary of the day we became lovers. She interprets the terms liberally, which is why I could buckle on my rapier and matching dagger of superlative Toledo steel. I covered them with my kidskin cloak, also given by her.
Bruno is the gentlest and most amiable of men. He beamed with joy when I signed that I wanted him to accompany me. Then he noticed the sword under my cloak and frowned mightily. I signed danger and maybe to tell him I was not going out to pick a fight, but when I told him to bring a cudgel, he glowered down at me like a thunderstorm, folded his great arms, and grew roots.
We often have this argument. I dropped to my knees and clasped my hands in prayer. He scowled, lifted me bodily, and held me there until I put my feet down; but then he did go and fetch the only weapon he will tolerate—Mama Angeli’s heaviest flatiron in a canvas bag with a shoulder strap. Most men would balk at having to lug somet
hing like that around for long, but Bruno barely notices the weight. Why it is a more acceptable defense than a stout stave I cannot understand and he cannot explain. I grinned, he smiled sheepishly, and off we went.
We could have run down the back stairs and gone out the servants’ door. It never occurred to me to do so. Instead we left by the watergate as usual, carefully negotiating the narrow ledge along the facade of Ca’ Barbolano to the corner of the building and the calle. It was easier for me than Bruno, who takes up much more space.
Seagulls were swimming on the strangely empty canal. This was the day of the funeral, so the city was in mourning for its procurator, and already I heard bells ringing in the distance. The Marciana porters were not working and the building site on the far side lay silent. Once we had made our way through the maze of calli, we found the morning crowds in the campo much decreased, and few hawkers making their rounds. Even the gossip session around the wellhead was thin, although there were more men than usual. We paused there to chat as neighbors do. I chatted. Bruno just smiled and nodded. Two girls teasingly warned me not to let my companion step on me, but most women are scared of Bruno.
As befits a small parish, San Remo has a small church. It is old and quaint, but it does have good stained glass and Father Farsetti is a personal friend of Jacopo Palma the Younger, who is the finest painter working in the city at the moment. Two of his early paintings hang in the church and afficionados come in droves to argue over them. There was no one arguing there that morning, but the door to the confessional was closed, so Father Farsetti was about his holy duties. I said a few prayers, including one for Bertucci Orseolo. Bruno wandered around, admiring the pictures and the glass. He does not understand churches and what happens there.
