The Alchemist's Pursuit (17 page)

“We'll never find him!” Fulgentio moaned. “Should we split up?”

I ran through the prophecy again in my mind. “Not yet. The man of blood
sees
blood, remember? The statue faces west.”

We pushed our way through the throng, resisting anonymous hands trying to pull us into the dancing. Most of the action was around a raging bonfire to the east of the column. The smaller, quieter crowd on the west side was taking advantage of the relative privacy of the shadow to engage in kissing and other tender pastimes.

“In there!” I told my accomplice. “That's perfect for Honeycat. Nobody's paying any attention to anyone else.”

“Provided he can recognize his victim. You watch this side. I'll go around the other.”

“Look out for friars,” I said as he hurried away.

That was easier said than done in the shadows, for many people wore hoods or head cloths, and almost everyone was masked. Prostitutes flaunted bare breasts; there were many of those, making me feel like a voyeur as I squirmed through between the couples. Fulgentio had wondered how the Strangler expected to recognize his prey. Were we wrong in our guess that he preyed only on women old enough to have known Zorzi Michiel? If any harlot would suffice, he would have no lack of choice here. And who said he had to dress as a friar?

A woman screamed. The sound came from in front of me, but there were about a dozen people between me and its source.

“No!”
I yelled, and hurled myself forward. Had I been as big as Bruno I might have accomplished something conclusive, but I could make no speed as I clawed and ricocheted through the mob, most of whom were now heading in the opposite direction. I saw a friar's hood, but as I went to tackle him, I realized that he held a knife, so I tried to dodge at the last minute. We toppled into others and went down in a heap. My actions had been monumentally idiotic and I paid for my folly with a searing pain in my ribs.

But then the onlookers bellowed and responded, most taking flight with cries of shrill alarm, while the rest—mainly young men whose foreplay had been interrupted—sought redress. I was kicked, cursed, then kicked again. I was hauled up by the collar. I was bleeding, which probably saved me from worse injuries. Rage turned to shouts of alarm.

“Stop him! Catch him! Stop him!” I realized that I had been bellowing this for what felt like quite a while. “Is anyone else hurt?”

Yes there was, because another group had gathered around someone who was not standing. Women screamed in horror. My companions went to see and I fled.

I was armed, soaked in blood, and—so the
sbirri
would claim—had created a disturbance to let my accomplice slit a purse or a throat. The least I could expect from them would be some ham-fisted barber sewing me up, a couple of nights in jail, and interrogation by the chiefs of the Ten on Monday. The fire in my ribs grew worse as I ran, but I must have taken a slash, not a stab, or I would be drowning in my own blood already. Superficial wounds can bleed more than punctures.

I crossed the bridge over the Rio dei Mendicanti and was faced with a dozen or so raucous, largely drunk, merrymakers filling the street from side to side. Many of them carried torches, and when I dodged through between them, they saw red all down my left side. Oh, how I cursed Fulgentio and his white cloaks! Fortunately nobody reacted fast enough to grab me, so I got safely past them, but then the shouting started and rapidly became a hue and cry.

Drunk or sober, they were fresh. I was winded and already feeling the loss of blood. I wasn't going to win a race and their shouts would alert any other group ahead of me. I needed a place to hide. The best Samaritans Venice possessed would not rescue a blood-soaked fugitive from the night without asking a lot of questions first.

A cat standing on its hind legs, scratching at a door? Sooner done than said. Some reactions are instantaneous, no matter how many words are needed to describe them later. Cats rarely condescend to be taught tricks, but will sometimes teach themselves, and this one must have learned that such antics would sooner or later persuade some friendly passerby to let it in. Probably the whole parish knew it and was proud of its cleverness. If that was the situation, the door was not kept locked. I was more than happy to let the cat in, follow it inside, and slam the door behind me.

I found a bolt and slid it. Then I slid myself—to the floor. For a while I just sat there, leaning back against the planks and gasping. The cat had vanished into the darkness. Judging by the smell, the cat often did not go outside.

Evidently my pursuers had not been close enough to see how or where I managed my disappearing act, for no one hammered on the door. As soon as I had caught my breath, I stripped off my cloak, doublet, and shirt, all of them blood soaked. I wrapped the shirt tightly around myself to bandage the gash slanting across three ribs, and then dressed again, hoping I was putting the cloak dark side out. Maybe Fulgentio's invention did have some uses, but dark red would be more appropriate than black.

I stood up with care and the world did not spin or tilt at odd angles. There would be blood on the floor in the morning, but at least my exsanguinous corpse would not be there also. I whispered, “Thanks, cat,” to the darkness. Rabid or otherwise, cats could be surprisingly useful. I opened the door and stepped out into the night with my head high, being as unfurtive as possible.

S
ince I had the big courtyard key with me, I let myself in the back way and did not terrify Luigi with my blood-stains. The stairs were even steeper than usual that night. Needless to say, the Maestro was not pleased to be wakened, but he could not refuse to sew his apprentice together. I put my garments to soak in a bucket, all except the cloak, which I burned in the kitchen fire. Only then was I free to go to bed.

Sunday, I decided, would be a day of rest.

 

 

I woke at dawn, as I always do. I rolled over and went back to sleep, which I never do.

When I did appear, the Maestro poked and prodded me and claimed that he detected no sign of the wound fever that kills more victims than wounds do. I knew that it was still too early to tell.

We said nothing more. We did not make eye contact until well after noon. I had failed him. He had foreseen when and where the Strangler would strike again and I had failed to block the attack. That was failure, the bitterest of tastes. The Maestro, for his part, had almost had to sign a receipt for one dead apprentice, and that was not part of the agreement either. Small wonder we had little to say to each other.

Most of the morning I spent reading and trying to memorize some of Ovid's
Metamorphoses
so I could be more worthy of my lady. He sat in his red chair with a copy of Paracelsus's
Paragranum
, but I noticed that he wasn't turning pages. He appeared to be staring at the slate table, doing absolutely nothing, which was another end-of-an-epoch landmark.

At one point I lowered my book because the print was a blur.

“He wasn't tall enough,” I said.

Silence.

“Bulky,” I said, “but not tall. Domenico said that Zorzi was tall. The Honeycat I caught wasn't tall.”

“Honeycat uses a rope, not a dagger.”

“A cord isn't fast enough in a crowd. He was forced back to using a knife because there were too many witnesses.”

My master snorted. “Or because he wasn't Honeycat.”

“But then . . .” But then had the Maestro's clairvoyance been distracted by a pending murder involving a different murderer?

“But what?” he snarled.

I thought it out as he has taught me. “He was Honeycat,” I said. “Don't ask me why I think that, because I have no rational reason to, but I am positive that the man I grabbed as I fell was Honeycat. I know that isn't logical.”

“But it may still be correct,” he growled. “Stop thinking about it and eventually you will understand, even if you have to dream it.”

 

 

The news had reached the parish and was distributed in the
campo
after Mass. There would have been no use my heading over to San Zanipolo to ask the residents what had happened there the previous night. I was an outsider and if the Virgin herself had returned to earth there to bless Carnival, even that would still be none of my business. The Council of Ten would have heard from its local spies, though, and I was half expecting
Missier Grande
to coming a-knocking at our door, or even send his
vizio
for me, which would be much more humiliating. Fortunately the Ten hesitate to invade the privacy of a noble's house and
sier
Alvise Barbolano is as noble as they come.

The Maestro lacks the Ten's resources, but he does have Giorgio and Mama Angeli. Both belong to enormous families, and there is hardly a parish in Venice that does not include some relative of theirs. In this case, as Giorgio explained when they all returned from church, one of his cousins' husband's brother Andreo lived in San Zanipolo where another poor woman had been murdered.

“I need to talk with him,” the Maestro said. “Fetch him. Bring an eyewitness, too, if he can find one for you. Bring his entire family and feed them here if you want.”

“He is not married,” Giorgio replied without a flicker of a smile. “But he will eat enough to make up for that.”

Finding a bachelor on a day of rest could have been tricky, but we were fortunate. Within twenty minutes a young man in his Sunday best was standing in front of the Maestro's chair, answering questions. Andreo was an apprentice carpenter and a juvenile version of Giorgio himself—short, heavy shouldered, and given to thinking before he spoke. He was as much of an eyewitness as we were likely to find, having been right there in the Campo San Zanipolo when the terrible thing happened. He had spoken with people who had seen the fight.

“They say she was attacked by two men, one of them dressed as a friar and the other wearing a white cloak.”

“Tell me about the woman,” Nostradamus said.

Andreo made the sign of the cross. “Marina Bortholuzzi was her name,
lustrissimo
.”

“Stabbed where?”

“In the, um, chest,
lustrissimo
.”

“What sort of woman?”

“The women claim she was a prostitute,” Andreo said, carefully distancing himself from such knowledge—no man in the parish would now admit ever having heard of Marina Bortholuzzi. “They say she was past her best. Used to be very high and mighty and lately hasn't been paying her rent on time. So the women were saying.”

The man in the white cloak had shouted and run away, drawing the crowd off so his accomplice could escape in the darkness. So Andreo said, and no doubt that was the popular account. It did not worry me overmuch, because the gash on my ribs was evidence as to what had really happened.

The Maestro sighed and thanked him. “Alfeo, a ducat for him.”

He had done well. I had not. Lucia, Ruosa, Caterina, and now Marina.

Failure.

 

 

Soon after that we went into dinner, Nostradamus walking with the aid of his canes, although Bruno hovered anxiously in the
salone
, eager to assist.

We ate without exchanging a single word, the Maestro and I. I did not speak because I had nothing useful to offer. Zorzi had been tall. The false friar I had assaulted on Campo San Zanipolo had not been tall. Zorzi was almost certainly dead, his brother had said, murdered by a bounty hunter. Our evidence for identifying the killer as Zorzi Michiel was looking flimsier by the hour, and yet something nibbled and nagged away at the back of my mind, some thought that I could not get hold of.

The Maestro's silence was ominous. I kept hoping he would decide to try another foreseeing, but he didn't. Judging by past experience, I feared that he had dreamed up something else, some maneuver so exotic and dangerous that he was trying to find an alternative.

After dinner, when we returned to the atelier, he was hardly into his chair before he said, “You must go and see Carlo Celsi again.”

“Sunday afternoon. He'll be attending the Great Council.” And Fulgentio Trau would be on duty, which explained why he had not come to see me.

“This evening will suffice. Now a contract with donna Alina Orio. Better do a draft first.”

“What terms?” I asked, reaching for a sheet of paper.

“Three hundred ducats to prove that Gentile Michiel was stabbed by someone other than his son, Zorzi.”

I selected a quill and inspected its tip carefully. “You believe that?”

“Yes, but as yet the evidence is merely indicative, not indisputable.”

Evidence? What evidence? He waited for a moment, no doubt hoping I would ask him so he could tell me to work it out for myself. When I didn't, he continued.

“The primary objective remains to track down this killer of courtesans, and I still believe that the two cases are connected. I want you to question every soul in that house who may, in your opinion, have any useful knowledge of either matter. The old lady can impose that on them, can't she?”

“Possibly not on Bernardo or Domenico, but I fancy everyone else is sufficiently terrified of her.”

“Mm. Make that just two hundred ducats. I don't want to frighten her into changing her mind. And I shall need a week. If I haven't caught Honeycat by then, we shall have to try something else.”

If he wanted me to go back to Carlo Celsi, he must already have something else in mind. He would have to tell me eventually, so I wasn't about to ask. I set to work on a draft, trying out a Carolingian minuscule hand that I had been studying. I was close to finished when someone rapped on the front door.