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  The Alchemist's Code

  ( Alchemist's Apprentice - 2 )

  Dave Duncan

  Dave Duncan

  The Alchemist s Code

  PROLOGUE

  I hate prologues. When I go to a theater I want action, dialogue, dancing, singing. I resent some long-winded actor coming out to lecture me at length on what the play is about or how great the performance is going to be. In real life, prologues are more interesting but rarely recognizable. This was like that-at the time I did not realize I was in a prologue, but it is relevant to the story and I promise to keep it brief.

  “Saints preserve us! Alfeo Zeno!”

  That was how it began.

  The time: early on a September evening, sweltering hot. The place: a narrow calle, packed solid with people emerging from a doorway to spill off in both directions. And me, squashed back against a wall. All that endless, baking summer I had been saving my tips so I could take Violetta to the theater when she returned from the mainland, and the afternoon had been a great success. I had every hope that the evening would be even more so.

  As we were trying to leave the courtyard, though, she was hailed by a tall man whom I recognized as sier Baiamonte Spadafora, one of her patrons, so I tactfully squirmed away. I could not love a courtesan if I did not have my jealousy under control, but Baiamonte would be shocked to see her being escorted by a mere apprentice, which was how I was dressed. In the Republic people’s costumes define them exactly.

  That works both ways, of course. While I waited for my lover to catch up with me, out in the calle, I amused myself by watching the throng squeezing by, identifying clerks and artisans and shopkeepers, male nobles in their black gowns, doctors and lawyers in theirs, even a couple of senators in red. Venice finds nothing odd in its ruling class mingling with the common herd. They live cheek by jowl and share many of the same tastes; some nobles are wealthy beyond the dreams of Midas, others are paupers.

  Of course I did not neglect the women, mentally sorting them into ladies, respectable housewives, and courtesans. Other cities are ashamed of prostitutes and try to hide them; Venice brags of its courtesans, flaunting them even in the highest levels of society. They are not confined to specific areas or required to wear some shameful badge; most of them dress better than senators’ wives.

  A man barged past me, then spoke my name: “Saints preserve us! Alfeo Zeno!”

  I knew the voice even before I turned, the most memorable male voice I had ever heard, rich and resonant as a pipe organ. I could even recall the summer it had appeared, basso profundo hatching from boyish treble in a matter of weeks. I had turned bright malachite with jealousy.

  “Danese Dolfin, as I hope for salvation!”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Years!”

  Danese and I had been children together in San Barnaba parish, but never close. He was a little older than me and would disappear for a year or so at a time, whenever his father was elected to some minor office on the mainland, helping to rule some fragment of the Venetian empire. His father cannot have been very impressive in his work and obviously had no influential patron to back him, because he suffered long gaps between the postings, when he and his brood sank back in among the barnabotti, the impoverished nobility. Danese had still been a lot better off than those of us who did not have fathers.

  Squashed together almost nose to nose-more specifically my nose, his chin-we inspected each other.

  “You are doing well,” I said.

  He had always been tall and good-looking, with blue eyes, almost-blond hair, and a fair complexion. When a nobleman reaches twenty-five or so, he lets his beard grow in and switches to floor-length robes, unless he is a soldier or follows some unusual profession, but sier Danese was clearly not there yet. Nay, he was a strutting peacock in bright silk doublet and knee britches, all embroidered and padded. His ruff was crisply starched, his puffed bonnet bigger than any pumpkin. He wore a sword, too, and clearly did not belong among the barnabotti now.

  “Moderately well,” he said smugly. “And how is the world treating you?”

  “I have no complaints.”

  His expression implied that I should have. His outfit had cost more than I would earn in several years. How had he done it? A nobleman can join a profession or engage in trade, but if he sinks to manual labor, his name will be struck from the Golden Book. Whatever Danese was up to was certainly not carpentry or canal dredging, but there are few honest ways for a man to shoot from poverty to wealth so quickly. The most obvious was marriage, because a nobleman’s children are noble even if his wife is not. If Danese had found a rich merchant of the citizen class with a daughter and a craving for noble grandchildren, then his sudden prosperity had sprung from her dowry.

  He had also had four sisters. Possibly one of them had married into money and towed him in on her bridal train.

  “And your family?” I asked. “Your parents, sisters? Married yet?”

  “My mother is still alive. My sisters all married down, alas. No, I’m not married.” He smirked, knowing exactly what I was wondering. “And you?”

  “No.” I would not discuss careers if he wouldn’t. I glanced around to make sure Violetta was not looking for me. “We must get together one day. Where are you living now?”

  “Over in Cannaregio,” he said vaguely. That told me nothing except that he did not want to get together. Palaces stand alongside tenements in Cannaregio, just as they do in the other five wards of the city. “And you?”

  I laughed. “Not in San Barnaba, anyway.”

  “Lord, no!” He smiled as if he had reached a decision. “You know what’s best about the sweet life, Alfeo? It’s not silk sheets or fancy clothes. It’s not fine wines or parties or roaring fires in winter. It’s not even escaping to the mainland in summer. No, it’s the food! Remember living on polenta and watermelon? My most sincere prayers are grace at table.”

  Suddenly I remembered why Danese and I had never been close-he had always been an insufferable pustule. Now red-hot pincers would not force me to mention that I lived in a palazzo, slept on silk sheets, and ate the finest cooking in all Venice.

  “You are making my mouth water. I am still waiting to taste gelado .” Mama Angeli’s cooking is unsurpassed, but gelado requires boatloads of snow from the Dolomite Mountains, an extravagance the Maestro would not tolerate.

  “You haven’t lived, Alfeo.”

  “Ah, there you are!” Violetta appeared at my side in a blaze of silver brocade, auburn hair, a carapace of diamonds, and a scent of roses. With her breasts fully visible through a net bodice, the most prized courtesan in Venice has a body to drive any man mad. I puckered, so she kissed. Yes, right there in public.

  “Wonderful talking to you again, Danese,” I said.

  His face was an open book. The first page said, Good God, he’s a pimp! The second page said, Then why doesn’t she dress him better?

  There were no other pages.

  Violetta is a people expert and read the situation at a glance. She fanned me with her lashes, breathed, “Come along, lover,” so he would hear, and pulled me close as we eased into the throng. “A friend of yours?”

  “One of the horrors of childhood. Meet anyone interesting?”

  She smiled understandingly. “Not a soul.” She meant that I was more interesting than men with money, nice of her. “There’s an interesting couple, though.”

  I looked as directed. The man wore the floor-length gown and round, flat-topped bonnet of the nobility, with the strip of cloth called a tippet draped over his left shoulder, but in his case these were all colored violet, to show that he was a member of the Collegio , the steering committee of the Senate. I do not know all of the twel
ve hundred or so noblemen of Venice, those eligible to sit in the Great Council, but I try to keep up with the inner circle, the sixty or seventy who actually run the Republic. He was new to me.

  The woman wore a full-length gown of sky-blue silk brocade with a square-cut neck and slightly puffed shoulders. It was expensively embroidered with seed pearls, but the oyster cemetery around her neck would have bought a small galleon. She carried a fan of white osprey plumes.

  When they had gone by, I shook my head.

  Violetta is a whole constellation of different women as circumstances require, and then she was in her political persona, the one I call Aspasia. Aspasia knows everyone who matters, meaning any man with money or power. “ Sier Girolamo Sanudo. Recently elected to navy. A surprise.”

  There are five ministers for navy in the Collegio. The post is regarded as training for youngsters on the way up, but Girolamo had looked unusually young for a senior post, probably not yet forty.

  “Son of sier Zuanbattista Sanudo?” I said. “Ambassador to somewhere.”

  Aspasia’s blue-gray eyes twinkled. “Well done! Except his daddy is back home now and was elected a ducal counselor last week.”

  August and September are the peak of the political season in Venice, when the Great Council elects the Senators and the Council of Ten and other senior magistrates. That is why the nobility had all returned from their country estates on the mainland. In October they would go back again for the bird hunting.

  “And the lady?” Aspasia asked.

  “Respectable, not a courtesan. About thirty, natural blonde, blue eyes, comfortably rounded, real pearls, richly but discreetly dressed, good teeth, developing pout lines around her mouth. I didn’t notice her at all. His wife?”

  “His mother, madonna Eva Morosini.”

  “Truly? I know they say Venetian nobles are born old, but sier Girolamo must have taken that to extremes. Stepmother, I assume?”

  Aspasia laughed. “A big step-he’s older than she is. She was Nicolo Morosini’s sister-came with a fat dowry and lots of political pull.”

  “Dimples, too, back then. What is so special about the Sanudos, apart from the extreme age difference?” And the obvious fact that father and son together wielded much political heft.

  She smiled with the innocence of a well-fed tiger. “Zuanbattista distinguished himself when he was in Constantinople; he won major concessions from the Sultan. He has climbed very fast up the political bell tower.”

  As a ducal counselor, he was close to the top already. The doge is head of state, but we Venetians have always lived in fear of tyranny, so we keep him shackled with six counselors, one from each ward of the city. He cannot open his mail or meet with a foreigner except in their presence; he can do nothing without the approval of four of them. That meant that Counselor Zuanbattista Sanudo could block any government action he did not like with the support of only two others; for the next eight months he would be one of the most powerful men in the Republic.

  “So when our present doge is called to a higher realm, the glamorous madonna Eva Morosini will become our dogaressa?

  Violetta-Aspasia chuckled, “She dreams of it every night.”

  “She would certainly brighten up the stodgy old palace. Exactly how do you know what she dreams of?”

  Even my darling’s laugh is beautiful. “A friend told me.”

  I saw that I had missed something subtle, but I did not press her on the matter, as I had other ideas more pressing. We had reached the watersteps where my gondola waited-not truly mine, of course, but a public boat rowed by my friend, Vettor Angeli, Giorgio’s eldest. He had agreed to transport me and my love to and from the theater that afternoon so I could play out my fantasy of being a rich noble. In return I had cast the horoscope of a girl he was thinking of marrying. It showed that she would be submissive, obedient, and faithful-not all qualities I would look for, but the news had pleased him, so we were both happy.

  Violetta and I went back to her apartment and the rest of the day is irrelevant to my story.

  Now you see why I did not notice the prologue. Think of it as the start of rehearsals for a play, or a bunch of friends planning a masque for Carnival, or even one of the scuole grande organizing a tableau for some great civic celebration. All of these begin with confusion as people mill around and someone hands out the scripts and assigns the roles. You over there-you can play the traitor; you’ll be the inquisitor. And for the murderer…

  That was Sunday.

  1

  A ll week the Maestro indulged himself in alchemical experiments on the sublimation of sulfur, stinking up the entire Ca’ Barbolano and neglecting his correspondence. When his folly caught up with me, I had to spend all Saturday morning in the atelier, writing letters at his dictation, he at one side of the big double desk, me at the other. Progress was slow, because I kept correcting his Latin-he has a nasty tendency to confuse ablatives with datives and is too stubborn to admit it. Some of the letters would have to be enciphered, which would ruin my plans for the afternoon.

  By noon he had questioned Walter Raleigh and Francis Bacon in England on geography and philosophy respectively, advised Michael Maestlin in Tubingen on the Copernican system and Christoph Clau at Collegio Romano on astrology. Now he was in the process of reassuring Galileo Galilei that his usual room would be available the next time he came over from Padua. I was hungry for dinner; he rarely remembers to eat at all. Mercifully, we were interrupted by a thump of our door knocker.

  He scowled so horribly that he actually showed his derelict teeth, which he does very rarely. “Did you forget to tell me of someone’s appointment?”

  “No, master. Your next appointment is on Monday at-”

  “Tell them I’m busy.”

  “Who knows, it may be the doge,” I said flippantly, heading for the door.

  It wasn’t, but not far off.

  I went out into the salone, which runs the full length of the building and is furnished with huge mirrors, enormous paintings, gigantic statues, spreading chandeliers of Murano glass, and myriad other treasures, all of which belong to sier Alvise Barbolano. He lets the Maestro and his staff live on the top floor of his palace in return for the occasional horoscope, medical consultation, and financial clairvoyance. Visitors are frequently struck dumb by their first sight of such opulence. The moment I opened the door I saw that these callers would not be easily impressed.

  The man was tall and gaunt, elderly but well preserved, with a face like the Dolomite Mountains that stand guard along our northern skyline-hard white stone above a spreading forest of silver-streaked beard. He wore the bonnet, long robes, and tippet of the nobility, but in his case they were cut from the rich scarlet brocade of a ducal counselor. To have such a man come calling was startling; to have him arrive without warning was epochal.

  The woman beside him seemed more likely to be his granddaughter than daughter. Her face was plump and her dark silk gown well filled. Genuine blond hair is notable, but not truly rare in Venice. I knew who this couple was and so must you, if you were paying attention earlier. The surprising thing was not that I remembered his face from my childhood, because he must have marched in scores of feast-day processions, and the spectators vie to identify important magistrates; what was rare was that I knew his wife’s name at first glance.

  Bad luck, the Maestro says, is misfortune; good luck may be treated as a reward for something.

  I bowed very low and kissed the man’s sleeve. “Your Excellency is indeed welcome. Madonna Eva Morosini, you honor this house. The Maestro is expecting you and if you will-”

  She gasped. “ Expecting us? Who told him we were coming?”

  Zuanbattista raised one shaggy eyebrow two hairs higher on his forehead. The reason Venetian nobles are said to be born old is because they never drop their dignity. They speak in grave tones after due consideration. A ducal counselor, especially, stands at the heart of the labyrinth of interlocking committees that run the Republic, being a member
of the Signoria, the Collegio, the Senate, and the Council of Ten. One week in every six he presides over the Great Council. No one in the least bit gullible would ever be allowed anywhere near any of that.

  I spread my hands in bewilderment. “Maestro Nostradamus is the finest clairvoyant in Europe, madonna. He foresaw the honor of your visit this morning. If you would be so gracious…”

  “We just decided! We didn’t tell anyone!” Madonna Morosini was much too much of a lady to dig an elbow in her gangling husband’s ribs, but her tone told him that she had told him so. He remained inscrutable, suspending judgment.

  And she? A man rarely sees more than he looks for, the Maestro says, and I had already learned far more from her than I ever would from staring at her companion. I decided she was very slightly disheveled, although it was hard to pick out any one feature that implied this. Were her eyelids slightly pink from weeping, or was her face powder patchy, as if applied in a hurry? Her hair was not as carefully dressed as it should have been. She wore no jewelry at all, and normally a great lady shows some.

  The Maestro is old and very frail, but his hearing is as sharp as a scalpel. I had left the door half-open. I led the way to it, pushed it wide. “The Sanudos are here, master.”

  Unless newcomers know what to expect, they must be disappointed by their first sight of the celebrated pedant, prophet, polymath, physician, and philosopher. He is bent and wizened, and his black physician’s gown and hat make him look even smaller than he really is. Badly lamed by an excess of rheum in his hips, he should walk with two canes, but prefers a single long staff inlaid with silver sigils. His hair hangs in untidy silver rat-tails, but he dyes his wispy goatee brown, for no reason I have ever been able to discover.

  Visitors are always impressed by the atelier, though-the double desk, the examination couch, the great armillary spheres, globes both terrestrial and celestial. Sanudo was too dignified to stare at the alchemical bench or the wall of books, but he certainly noticed them in passing and would know that this room was the Maestro’s own, not just borrowed for the morning.