Murder at Midnight (3 page)

A
FTER SEEING
D
E
L
A
B
INA OUT
, F
ABRIZIO RACED BACK TO
his master’s study and flung himself onto his knees. “Master, forgive me!”

Mangus, who had spread the treasonous papers out before him, looked down at the boy. “Forgive you? For what?”

“I told that man the truth about your magic.”

“What you did,” said an angry Mangus, “was to confuse what you
think
is true with what
is
true.”

Fabrizio put a hand to his heart. “Thank you for correcting me, Master. From now on I shall only think untrue things.”

“No! Always speak the truth.”

“Even if it harms you?”

“Fabrizio, philosophy teaches that truth neither helps nor hinders. What matters is the way you deal with it.”

“Yes, Master. From now on I’ll only tell the truth when it helps you.”

“Fabrizio,” cried an exasperated Mangus, “only fools think themselves wise! A wise man knows his ignorance.”

“Then I must be the smartest person in the whole world because I’m the stupidest!”

“Fabrizio, get off your knees and stop your nonsense! This business” — Mangus waved his hand over the papers — “is deadly serious.”

Fabrizio stood. “Master, I beg you, don’t do what that man asked. You know what people say: Seek the devil and he’ll find you first.”

“I’ve no intention of seeking the devil.”

“But the magistrato said these papers were the devil’s work.”

“You may be sure the devil is not interested in such a wretched place as Pergamontio. No, these papers are the work of some human who wishes to depose the king. I assure you, there is no devil involved.”

“Master, everybody knows there are devils everywhere who —”

“Stop! If you had listened carefully, you would have
understood. DeLaBina claimed I made the papers
magically.
Yes. But he went on to say that some
devilish
person — not the devil —
requested
them. That person is the one DeLaBina is after.

“But,” said Mangus, gazing at the papers, “I have no choice. It’s I who must find the one who made them. A command from the primo magistrato is a command from the king. Or worse, Count Scarazoni. If I can’t find the one who made these ghastly papers, the magistrato will blame me.”

“But why?”

“Because — and heed me well, Fabrizio — though truth is reason, the truth is rarely seen as reasonable.” Mangus pressed his hands against his temples.

Fabrizio watched him for a moment. “Master, why don’t you use your magic to solve the problem?”

“Fabrizio,” yelled Mangus, “once and for all, I have no magic!”

“Yes, Master,” said Fabrizio, backing away and bobbing a bow three times. “Of course, Master. Whatever you say, Master.”

Mangus closed his eyes. “Still, that such a hand — even a poor hand — can replicate itself with extreme exactitude, that, truly, is a … mystery.”

Fabrizio waited a few moments before asking, “What can you do, Master?”

Mangus glared at the boy. “God gave us the gift of reason. To use it, Fabrizio, is our gift to him. Unfortunately, the enemy of reason is exhaustion, and though it’s still early in the day, I’m already weary.” He closed his eyes.

“Master,” whispered Fabrizio, “if you can’t find the … traitor, will they really … burn you?”

“That’s what he threatened.”

Fabrizio stared at his master. The thought of him suffering such a fate made him sick. He fetched and draped a shawl over the old man’s shoulders.

“Master, I know you think me a fool and wish I’d never come into your home. But please, I beg you, let me help.”

“You’re nothing but an ignorant street beggar.”

Fabrizio hung his head.

Mangus glanced up at the boy, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and said, “Well … tell me, then. What would you do?”

Fabrizio thought desperately. “I could … I could go about the city and gather up the papers until there are no more. Wasn’t that the first thing that DeLaBina asked of you?”

“I suppose such an effort would at least keep you from jabbering into my ear. Fine. Go and try to collect the papers.”

“Yes, Master, and … and should I ask people where they came from? Who they thought made them?”

“Any clue will help,” conceded Mangus.

“I’ll pray I find one,” said Fabrizio. He started for the door.

“Fabrizio!” called Mangus. “Do not forget: DeLaBina’s spies and informers are everywhere. Do nothing to bring suspicion on me. Speak to no one about the accusations. Do you hear me?
No one!
”

Fabrizio ran back, snatched up Mangus’s hand, and
kissed it. “Master, as I am loving to you and your name, I’ll do just what you ask.”

Mangus sighed. “I’ll take comfort in the thought that all beginnings are fueled by hope.”

“Master, on the street people say, ‘Though hope is bright as fire, it can’t boil water.’”

“For God’s sake, Fabrizio!” cried Mangus. “Leave me!”

“Yes, Master,” said Fabrizio. “Just know that I’m trying to help you.” He bowed five times and then ran out of the room.

A
S
F
ABRIZIO RUSHED DOWN THE HALLWAY, HE CRASHED
into Benito and Giuseppe. The two servants were just entering the house.

“Stupid boy!” shouted Giuseppe. “Look where you’re going!”

“Signori,” said Fabrizio, noting their empty hands. “I thought you were at market and —”

“It’s none of your business where we were,” said Giuseppe, leaning over the boy. “Where are you going?”

“It’s Master, he —” Suddenly remembering that Mangus had told him not to speak to anyone about the matter, Fabrizio slapped a hand over his mouth.

Benito pulled it away. “Has something happened?”

“Well, yes, or rather, no. Maybe. With permission, I hope not.”

“What is it?” demanded Giuseppe.

Fabrizio darted a nervous glance back toward Mangus’s study. “Forgive me, Signori,” he whispered. “Master told me not to tell anyone.”

“We are not anyone,” said Benito, slapping Fabrizio’s ear from behind. “We’re your betters.”

The boy bowed his head and murmured, “Yes, Signore, whatever you say.”

Giuseppe boxed Fabrizio’s other ear. “With Mistress not here to coddle you, you’ll do as
we
tell you.”

Fabrizio, remembering Mistress Sophia’s request that he not quarrel with the servants, pressed back against the wall and averted his eyes. “I’m just trying to help Master.”

“You can start by telling us everything about this matter,” said Giuseppe. “Now come with us!”

“But, Master told me —”

“Blockhead!” said Benito. “It’s not Master or Mistress who manages things here, but us.”

Wishing he were twice as big and three times stronger, Fabrizio followed Benito out through the back of the house. They passed through a small courtyard where some of Mangus’s larger magic apparatuses were stored: multicolored chests. A huge jar. A large pine coffin with fancy iron handles. Fabrizio knew they were used for appearances and disappearances, none of which Fabrizio had seen his master
perform. He paused at the coffin, wishing he could jump inside and hide. Giuseppe pushed him on.

On the far side of the courtyard, next to a door that led out into the back alley, stood a small shed. It contained two rooms: the household kitchen and the place in which Benito and Giuseppe lived.

Once inside, Giuseppe turned to Fabrizio. “All right, what’s happened with Master?”

“Signore, it’s truly a private matter that —”

Benito shoved Fabrizio hard. “Boy, I’ve been here for years. Giuseppe the same. You have been here one month. Master thinks you’re a fool. We agree. In short, you have no rights!”

“Signori,” gasped Fabrizio. “I understand: The ocean may be large, but little fish follow the big fish.”

“Perfect,” said Giuseppe. “Because big fish
eat
smaller fish.”

“So tell us what’s happened,” said Benito. “We need to know. And be quick about it!”

Fabrizio, feeling he had no choice, related what had passed between Magistrato DeLaBina and Mangus.

As he talked, Giuseppe and Benito kept exchanging looks.

“So you see,” Fabrizio concluded, “because the magistrato claims Master made those papers with magic and that someone devilish told him to make them, it’s Master’s duty to reveal the one who got him to do the deed and committed treason.”

“Did you truly tell DeLaBina that Master does
real
magic?” asked Giuseppe.

“Signore, Master said I was always to tell the truth.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” said Benito, “that telling the truth is bad for
us?”

“The magistrato only said he might punish Master.”

“You don’t know how the world works, do you?” said Giuseppe. “When masters are punished once, servants are punished twice.”

“What has Mangus decided to do about this matter?” asked Benito.

“He has no choice. He must find the one who is trying to depose the king.”

Once again Benito and Giuseppe looked at each other.

“How does he intend to do that?” asked Giuseppe.

“To begin, I was going out to collect all the papers.”

“You?”
said Giuseppe.

“Forgive me, Signori, but Mistress Sophia said I was to take care of Master.”

“Did she?” said Benito. “Fine! Do so! As for us, we’ll take care of ourselves.”

“But,” said Giuseppe, shaking a fist in Fabrizio’s face, “make sure you keep no secrets from us!”

“Now get out of here,” yelled Benito, “and do what you promised Master you’d do.”

“Yes, Signori,” said Fabrizio. “Of course. Absolutely. Small fish! Big fish! True! Untrue! With permission!” And trying to dodge a flurry of blows, he dashed away.

F
ABRIZIO BURST OUT OF THE HOUSE AND ONTO THE
narrow cobblestone Street of the Olive Merchants. Sprinting to the first turning, he halted to rub the bruises he had just received. “Nasty Benito,” he muttered. “Ugly Giuseppe.”

He started to walk. The morning’s air, warmed by a golden sun, was dusty and sweet. The smells of new-pressed olive oil, roasting meat, and baking bread soothed him until he gazed up at the mountain looming over Pergamontio. There, perched on its summit, was the Castello, the great fortification where King Claudio, his family, and court resided. Fabrizio could see armed sentries — more than usual — pacing the crenellated walls. Sparks of sunlight glinted off their polished armor.

Fabrizio was grateful he had never been to the Castello. Too many people had been dragged there, never to be seen again, not so much as a bone.

It was all the doing — people claimed — of Count Scarazoni. Perhaps, thought Fabrizio, Magistrato DeLaBina
was there right now conferring with the count about Mangus. It was a frightful thought.

Fabrizio lowered his gaze to the street and watched people pass. It took only moments for him to realize something
was
different. Usually, raucous cries were heard everywhere: “Buy my oil!” “Fine figs!” “Lovely pots to be had!” But this day, though men and women, many laden with baskets and dressed in colorful clothing, filled the street like a carnival parade, people appeared sullen and tense, offering little idle or noisy chatter. Rather, they had gathered in small knots, whispering among themselves while furtively glancing over shoulders to see who might be listening. Even the priests, monks, and nuns in their white-, gray-, and black-hooded robes seemed preoccupied, barely greeting passersby as was their custom. As for the regular swarms of children darting here and there like dashing minnows, they were nowhere to be seen. The loudest street noise was a plodding donkey that brayed.

But the streets were full of Count Scarazoni’s green-coated soldiers. Armed with pikes and swords, they dispersed every gathering they came upon.

Fabrizio recalled the words on the treasonous paper:

It all made Fabrizio hungry.

At the nearest stall he ordered a square of flat bread with olive oil, garlic, and mashed basil. After he received his food and paid his coin, he leaned forward. “Signore,” he whispered, “have you seen any of those papers calling for … for change in Pergamontio?”

The man stared. “Be off with you!”

Fabrizio found a sunny spot by a bubbling fountain, sat down, and chewed his bread. All the while he kept an eye out for the papers. Within five minutes, a baker, dusted with flour from hair to foot, came down the street clutching one.

Gulping down the last of his bread, Fabrizio hastened
to follow. “Excuse me! Pardon me!” When he finally caught up with the man, he grabbed his thick arm.

The baker swung around.

“With permission, Signore!” said Fabrizio. “That paper in your hand — where did you get it?”

The man gawked at Fabrizio, flung the paper away, turned, and lumbered off in haste.

Fabrizio retrieved the paper from the gutter. He could not really read it, but he recognized the words: the same paper DeLaBina had brought to Mangus. To see an exact replica there on the street was uncanny.
It does seem magical.

A quiver of dread passed through him.

Stuffing the paper into his tunic sleeve, he posted himself in a doorway to watch for more of the papers. Within moments he spotted a strolling carpenter reading one.

Fabrizio leaped before him. “Signore! With perfectly friendly intentions, that paper you are reading —”

The man turned red, tossed the paper into Fabrizio’s face, and dashed down an alley without looking back.

Fabrizio looked at it. It, too, was the same.

After slipping this second paper up his sleeve, he walked through the city in search of more. He found them in many hands. Whenever he managed to scrutinize them, they were
exactly
the same. And when he asked people where they got them, they replied,

“On my doorstep.”

“Stuck to a wall.”

“It just appeared.”

“How?” demanded Fabrizio.

No one could explain.

For the rest of the afternoon, Fabrizio went about the city collecting the papers. Why, he wondered anew, could not Mangus admit that it must have taken magic to make so many exactly alike?

When he had gathered all the papers he could, Fabrizio felt very pleased with himself. He could not wait to show Mangus that he had achieved the first of the magistrato’s tasks. Surely Master would be pleased with him. And Mistress Sophia would be very proud.

Stuffing the papers into his sleeves, Fabrizio set off through the city, taking a shortcut through an alley. He
was halfway through when a law-court soldier — in his blue uniform — appeared and blocked the far end. Startled, Fabrizio stopped.

“You are under arrest for treason!” announced the soldier.

“God protect me!” Spinning around, Fabrizio ran toward the other end of the street only to be confronted by yet another blue coat. Realizing he was trapped, he reached for the papers to get rid of them. Before he could, the soldiers leaped forward and held him fast.

Fabrizio was forced out to the main street. There, waiting on his horse, was Magistrato DeLaBina. With him was a whole troop of blue coats, all with swords in hand.

As soon as he approached DeLaBina, Fabrizio said, “Signor Magistrato, with permission, I have been trying —”

“Silence!” shouted the magistrato. “I know what you’ve been doing. Search him.”

It took just seconds for the soldiers to find the treasonous papers. They handed them up to DeLaBina, who gave them only a cursory glance.

“Exactly as I thought,” DeLaBina exclaimed so all could hear. “Proof that Mangus the Magician is making treasonous papers and, with the help of his servant boy, spreading them about the city. Only one question remains. Who is he acting for?”

“Signore …” tried Fabrizio.

“Silence!” said DeLaBina. “Take him to the Hall of Justice!”

A soldier yanked Fabrizio onto the back of his horse. As he did, DeLaBina, with a shout, called up his men. The whole troop galloped into motion.

The horses raced around the corner. That was when Fabrizio saw Giuseppe standing by the side of the street. He was smiling.