by Dave Duncan
“English and German.”
“Why?”
“You think I got this job entirely on my good looks?”
“Obviously not.” He had gotten it by being somebody’s nephew, but it would be petty to say so. “So Domenico was planted on the foreigners to spy for the Ten, but he only admitted to knowing French, not English, so that he could eavesdrop on their private conversations?”
“That’s very obvious, Alfeo. Quite simplistic.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just a dumb monseigneur. And has Domenico Chiari now returned to his normal job at the bank, spying on foreign currency transactions?”
We arrived at the mooring and had climbed into the gondola before I received an answer. I told Giorgio to take us to the Ca’ Orseolo. When I joined Vasco in the felze he said:
“I don’t know what’s happened to Domenico. He’s not a close friend of mine, but he is a friend. That’s another reason the Feathers will not be leaving Venice today.”
22
Ca’ Orseolo fronted on the Grand Canal, naturally. It was too old to be one of the truly splendid palaces, but it still gave off a reek of money that annoyed me intensely when I remembered all the trouble I had had collecting the Maestro’s fee for the ill-fated horoscope. Two large cargo barges were tied up at the watergate when we arrived, and Giorgio had trouble docking. Although Florence is a greater weaving center, Venice trades in wool from England and Flanders, cotton from Egypt, silk from Cathay. I knew that Ca’ Orseolo was one of the principal importers of finished fabrics, and I counted ten men unloading bales. Inside the androne I saw stacks of furniture that had probably just arrived from the Procuratie.
By myself, and especially after the previous day’s spitting match, I would have needed the backing of a brigade of musketeers to get close to any member of the family. I had dear Vasco instead. Without hesitation he strode into the androne, headed straight to a man issuing orders, and demanded to be taken at once to the noble Enrico. And so he was, with me smiling happily along at his side. We did not even have to go upstairs. The Lizard and his son were closeted in a counting room nearby with an elderly clerk and a dozen massive ledgers. None of them was wearing formal mourning, so grief had been stoically set aside in favor of tallying up the inheritance. Or possibly young Benedetto was being given a lesson in the family business. His sling still hung around his neck, but did not contain his arm. That hand held a pen, and he was making notes. A fast healer, obviously.
Father and son stared in blazing disbelief at the intruders, from Vasco to Zeno and back again. Vasco stepped aside with a flourish to give me the stage. The clerk tactfully scuttled out, closing the door.
I bowed with grace. “Your Excellency…sier Benedetto…I am deeply sorry to have to intrude on your grief again. I did inform Your Excellency yesterday that officers of the Republic were supporting my investigation of your honored father’s death.” I paused so Enrico might comment. He merely laid his arms on the desk and stared at me with his bulging eyes like Jupiter aiming thunderbolts.
I continued. “This evening, one hour after Angelus, the persons who were present in the Imer residence on the evening of the thirteenth will assemble there again, at which time my master, Doctor Nostradamus, will demonstrate how and by whom your father was murdered. Since your daughter was one of the witnesses, we request that she attend.”
Enrico waited to see if that was all, then snake-eyed my escort, “You are the genuine vizio, Filiberto Vasco?”
“I am, Excellency.”
I wondered if the great conciliator was about to offer us a deal, something involving only half my head on a plate.
“I wanted to be quite sure. The swindler beside you intruded on our house of mourning yesterday claiming to speak for the Council of Ten and accompanied by a prostitute masquerading as a nun. He created a disturbance, even threatening to draw on my son, who was unarmed. I am surprised by the company you keep, Vizio.”
Vasco’s day just kept getting better. How he managed to keep from giggling I could not imagine.
“I am deeply shocked to hear these charges, Your Excellency. They are most serious and I am certain that the Ten will react with great severity.”
“Is he a nobile homo as he claims?”
Vasco sighed. “Regrettably, yes, at the moment, but even if he escapes the gallows, he will certainly be stricken from the Golden Book when he is sent to the galleys.” He gave me a warm smile. “His master does have permission to stage a reenactment this evening, though, and action against both of them will have to wait until after that is completed. I expect that Missier Grande himself will be there, and will certainly oblige a minister of your eminence by taking Zeno into custody as soon as the farce is over. I may report that your daughter will attend?”
I was keeping an eye on Benedetto, who looked troubled. Alfeo with the vizio’s backing was a much more credible threat than Alfeo without.
His father said, “As a member of the Collegio, I take grave exception to this harassment in my time of sorrow. The Council of Ten has approved the farce you describe?”
Vasco would not have arrived where he had without some natural skill at obfuscation. “The chiefs raised no objections to Maestro Nostradamus’s proposal, but they granted him no immunity either. He and Zeno may both be vulnerable to prosecution for malicious mischief, at the very least.”
“I will see that both are charged,” Enrico said, giving me a venomous look. “My daughter will be present.”
As we walked back out to the watergate, Vasco said, “If you have any sense, boy, you will start running now and not stop until you are somewhere in the hinterland of the Kingdom of Prester John, wearing a heavy beard.”
“You enjoy this prospect?”
“It helps me bear the sorrows of life,” he conceded.
I told Giorgio the Ca’ Tirali.
For several reasons I dreaded my coming meeting with the new ambassador. For one, although my letter had turned down his incredibly generous offer, no doubt I would find a gracious and courteous reply waiting for me when I returned to Ca’ Barbolano. For another, I strongly suspected that he was possessed, like Karagounis, because his offer had not just been incredible in itself, it had come very soon after I was snared by the manuscript. And for a third, even my impudence does have limits. Tirali senior was one of the inner circle of government. As one of the six great ministers, Enrico Orseolo was another, of course, but Vasco and I had not been demanding that he attend the meeting, only asking that he send his daughter to it.
I had no need of the vizio to gain admittance, because the doorman granted me noble honors. He deeply regretted that Ambassador Tirali had already left for the palace, but sier Pasqual was in residence. If the clarissimo would be so kind as to follow…He led us up the great staircase and left us in the imposing salotto while he went to report our presence. I headed for a Palma Vecchio I had admired the previous day.
Vasco could hardly have missed the difference in my reception. He strolled over to join me. “Friend of the family, are you?”
“Neighbor,” I said, peering at the brushwork with my nose almost on the canvas. “I feed the cat when they’re out of town.”
He said, “Hmm?” and after a moment, “Have you any theories on why your lunatic master is being so diabolically secretive about the name of the murderer?”
“Yes. What’s yours?”
“There are those who mistakenly believe,” he murmured, “that the Council of Ten, while often insanely suspicious of members of the nobility it thinks may be plotting treason with foreigners, is sometimes not as assiduous as it should be in charging the same aristocrats with purely criminal behavior. If your master shared this seditious misapprehesion, then he might think that he could force the Ten’s hand by exposing the culprit in public.”
“That assumes,” I said, “that he intends to accuse a noble. It also assumes that the Ten already know or suspect the culprit and have decided to let him off by accepting the
Greek’s suicide as a confession of guilt, and that the chiefs of the Ten do not like this travesty of justice and seized upon my master’s offer as a way of frustrating the will of the majority. You are jumping to a huge heap of conclusions, Vizio.”
“So what’s your theory?”
“That he was telling the truth when he said that an accusation would not convince but a demonstration would.”
“That’s all?”
“No.” I backed away so I could admire the composition from afar. “He’s also a real Pantaloon who loves showing off.”
“He will be walking a very high wire tonight, then.”
Before I could counter that, Pasqual Tirali strolled in, looking frowsty, as if he had been dragged out of bed and had dressed in a hurry. I wondered if he had been partying all night with Violetta and thrust the thought out of my mind. Although this was an unconscionable hour to call on a patrician playboy, he embraced me and acknowledged Vasco’s bow with a gracious nod.
I explained our mission.
He frowned. “You told us yesterday, Alfeo, you had found no evidence that the procurator’s death was due to foul play.”
“I would still say so, but my master disagrees. He insists that he will unmask a murderer this evening.”
Pasqual smiled the irresistible Tirali family smile. “Then we must not miss the excitement. My father is very busy just now, getting ready to take up his new position, but I will tell him. How long will it take?”
“I should hope no more than an hour, Pasqual.”
“And you wish me to bring the same lady who was my companion that evening?” His face showed no sign of mockery or secret knowledge. If he was aware that he shared Violetta with me, then he was a stunningly effective actor.
“If you would be so kind.”
“It will be a pleasure. My mother?”
“No, he asked for only those who were in the viewing room.”
“Knowing my mother, she may not take no for an answer.” Subtly, he began moving us toward the door. “My father was very disappointed when he received your letter this morning, Alfeo.”
I mumbled my apologies.
“I know he sent you a reply leaving the offer open if you ever change your mind.”
That made me feel even more ungrateful, of course.
The inevitable question came as Vasco and I descended the marble staircase. “What offer?”
“The cat. He wanted me to look after it while he’s away in Rome.”
“This is my sty,” I said as we approached the Ca’ Barbolano. “Giorgio will take you on to wherever you want to go. You won’t mind if I do not invite you in? The neighbors would be shocked.”
“I understand entirely,” Vasco countered. “In my job I have to consort with the worst sludge imaginable. We shall meet again this evening, I expect. But hopefully not for the last time.”
I said, “Amen to that. I do so enjoy our little fencing bouts.”
As I emerged from the felze, I caught Giorgio’s eye and signaled Hurry back in Bruno sign language. Giorgio merely nodded, a gesture that means the same to Bruno and me as it does to everyone else in the world except Greeks. With Vasco aboard, the gondola sped off along the canal.
Our arrival had gone largely unnoticed, because the Marciana battalions were all out on the quay, having a screaming match with the workers on the building site opposite. Insults and obscene gestures flew back and forth. I was amused to notice that Corrado and Christoforo were over there, yelling abuse as loudly as anyone at their Marciana friends on this side. I did not bother to inquire the cause of contention. Just because this was Venice, I suspected. I sent Bruno off upstairs and leaned against the door jamb to judge the invective. The Marciana army won by default when the foremen opposite managed to drive everyone back to work.
Giorgio returned in an astonishingly short time, flitting his gondola along the Rio San Remo like a seabird. He pulled in to the quay and I lurched aboard. I would like to say I leaped aboard, but my leg was throbbing again. In fact he caught my wrist just before I fell overboard.
“Where did he go?”
“The Rialto.”
“Fast as you can!” I shouted, flopping down on a thwart. I almost never ask that of Giorgio and he responded with a wild swing of his oar, spinning the gondola on its axis to great shouts of rage from other boats going by, and then shooting it back the way he had come like a musket ball.
I knew exactly why Vasco had gone to the Rialto, but I had very little hope of finding him. The Rialto area is the commercial heart of the whole Republic. It has the only bridge over the Grand Canal, is where the banking is done, where most foreigners lodge, and where the great food markets are—hardly surprising that it is constantly crowded.
Giorgio shot the gondola in between two others in front of the Palazzo dei Dieci Savi and shouted “That way!” I scrambled ashore and hobbled as fast as I could along the Ruga degli Oréfici, which was packed with people heading home for their midday meal. The bankers mostly congregate near the church of San Giacomo di Rialto, scribbling in ledgers laid out on tables under the porticos. If Domenico Chiari was about the same age as Vasco and myself, as Vasco had implied, then he would be no more than a clerk, a junior who might be sent off on errands anywhere in the city. So Vasco might have drawn a blank and headed back to the palace to report to Missier Grande.
But he hadn’t. San Giacomo answered my panted prayers, and I caught a glimpse of a red cloak. The vizio was standing by a pillar, having a friendly tête-à-tête with a man of our age, but shorter, pudgy, and bespectacled. The crowds had observed the cloak and left a clear space around them. Even so, the two men were conversing in whispers. Fortunately Vasco had his back to me, so I was able to approach unnoticed and come to a stop right behind his shoulder. I leered like a shark at Domenico so he could not help noticing me—eavesdropping is beneath my dignity and honor unless I can do it unobserved.
He flinched. With his eyeglasses balanced on an almost comically snub nose, he looked very owlish.
Vasco whirled around and bared fangs at me. “What do you want?”
“A chat with the illustrious Domenico.”
“Go away!” the vizio said. “Or I will arrest you as a public nuisance. Dom, never answer any question this character ever asks you. If he pesters you in any way at all, throw him in the canal.”
Chiari smiled nervously. “I don’t think I could do that without help.”
“A lot of help,” I suggested.
“Would four scriveners and two tallymen suffice?”
Oh? A wit!
Vasco was not amused either. “Go away, Zeno.”
I shrugged. “A very few questions, quite harmless. Does he spy for the Council of Ten?”
Chiari, regrettably, failed to turn pale or flinch guiltily. He laughed as if that was the funniest suggestion he had heard in years.
Vasco said, “That is none of your business. I have to put up with you, but I will not allow you to harass my friends. Now go!”
Fun is fun, but if I concealed information just to score points off Vasco, I would be handing him a stick to beat me with in future. Besides he was several points up on the morning.
“Truce?” I said. “Just listen while I ask him a couple of questions. Whether he answers or not, you will be glad you did.”
“No!”
“He’s lying to you. Upon my honor and as I hope for salvation.” I crossed myself.
We have cooperated in the past, Filiberto Vasco and I, although not often. We both hate doing it, he probably more than I, but he knows I play fair. I am not always so sure about him.
He scowled. “Truce then, as San Marco is my witness. Dom, this is sier Alfeo Zeno and you are still not required to answer his questions.”
Chiari peered politely at me over his eyeglasses. “How may I help you, clarissimo?”
“The Miracle of the Holy Cross,” I said. “Painted by Titian. You advised sier Bellamy Feather when he bought it?”
This time his response was more guarded. “I translated for him during the negotiations. I do not pretend to be an art expert.”
“But you are a Venetian? You speak like one. You must have recognized the bridge in the background of that picture.”
“It looked much like the Rialto, but artists—”
“I remember the new Rialto bridge being completed,” I said. “So must you. When did Titian die, lustrissimo?”
“I don’t recall, clarissimo. I am not—”
“1576.”
If I could see the sparkle of sweat on his forehead, Vasco certainly could.
Chiari said, “I think the picture is in the master’s style, painted by one of his pupils, messer.”
“No doubt, but it purports to be signed by him. How much did Feather pay for it?”
“I don’t remember.”
I had no need to ask more questions. He was pale as ashes and Vasco scarlet with fury.
“What are you implying, Zeno?”
“Truce, remember? One or two bad fish in the net I could understand, but the Feathers’ association with your friend turned out to be astonishingly unfortunate for them. The lady showed me six paintings, and only one of them was any good. Your friend must consort with very unscrupulous dealers. Does he spy for the Ten?”
Vasco said, “Yes,” through clenched teeth. Domenico gaped at him in horror.
“So when a rich foreigner and his wife arrived and rented a luxurious—”
“No!” Chiari squeaked. “His bankers in London wrote to Ca’ Pesaro before he even arrived—”
“Immaterial,” I told Vasco. “Ca’ Pesaro reported the London request to the Ten—or the Ten opened their mail, perhaps. Probably both. House Pesaro was told to assign your friend to the Feathers, because very rich foreigners are suspect. He discovered they had more money than knowledge, and no evil intent whatsoever. He proceeded to swindle them blind, feeding them the sort of junk that is painted only to dupe tourists. He may even have embroidered his reports to Circospetto to make the Feathers seem dangerous enough to justify watching. What sort of kickback did the forgers give him, do you suppose? Half? A third? Then either the Bellamys found out what he was doing and threw him out, or the Ten decided that they were harmless and pulled him off the case. I remind you, my dear Filiberto, that while we Venetians are the world’s hardest bargainers, we do always keep our word. Swindling customers is just not in the cards.”
