The Alchemist's Apprentice Read Free

safekeeping.
    Out on the canal, wind and rain continued their wild dance. At times the downpour was so heavy that I could barely make out the lanterns on passing gondolas. The light outside our door continued to burn brightly and so did the one outside Number 96, next-door, but even 96 was attracting little business in such weather. Once or twice I saw a light moving on the building site directly opposite, but I could not tell if it was carried by a conscientious watchman or the thieves he was supposed to deter. Midnight came and went. The last of 96’s customers departed. Its windows darkened and eventually a servant took down its lantern and carried it away indoors, leaving me the whole world to myself.
    Nothing happened for another hour. I had almost come to believe I had misunderstood my instructions when I saw a light approaching. I could not even make out how many men the boat held, but it pulled in at our watersteps. I raced downstairs, my lamp throwing wild shadows on the walls.
    Before they banged the knocker and wakened Luigi, I flipped open the peephole. “Who goes there?”
    The night growled, “Visitors to see Doctor Nostradamus.” The speaker was standing with his face in shadow. His voice was familiar.
    â€œHe is not at home.” Wisdom has departed.
    â€œOpen this door, Zeno!”
    â€œI have orders to admit no one. Anyone else you wish to speak with, I shall be happy to fetch. But the Maestro is not at home.”
    Then the speaker edged back so the light was on his face. “Open in the name of the Republic!” said Raffaino Sciara.
    The night was now much colder. In theory I could have demanded to see his warrant, but if I delayed him any longer, Sciara could set his men to work on the big brass door knocker, and the last thing the Maestro would want would be a clamor to rouse the household and let the Barbolanos learn that he was in trouble with the government.
    â€œAt once, lustrissimo !” While I was hauling on the bolts, my mind chased its tail puppy-wise, wondering what could possibly have provoked this invasion. As soon as I had one flap open, I grabbed up my lamp again and backed away. I smiled a toothy welcome at the fanti as they entered—four of them, just as my tarot had warned. Fanti wear no armor, but they carry swords concealed in their cloaks.
    It was the man behind them who gave me intestinal cramps. Raffaino Sciara is tall, stooped, and cadaverous, with all the lovesomeness of a serpent. He bears an uncanny resemblance to the image of Death in my tarot deck. His cloak of office is blue, but otherwise put a scythe in his hand and he would be dressed for Carnival as the Grim Reaper. He is Circospetto , chief secretary to the Council of Ten, which plays at the capital crimes table.
    I bowed gracefully. “Welcome to Ca’ Barbolano, lustrissimo .”
    The death’s-head inspected me with a sneer that would curdle spring water. “Where is your master, boy?”
    â€œHe is not here.”
    â€œI can see that, Alfeo.”
    â€œCan I assist you in his absence? Read your palm? Cast your horoscope?”
    The Maestro might have accused me of childish babbling to conceal fear and for once I would not have argued. The Venetian Council of Ten runs the finest international spy network in Europe, but it also knows everything about everyone within the Republic itself. Its members come and go, but its secretaries remain forever, and Sciara must have more secrets fluttering around inside his memory than San Marco has pigeons. Whatever personal hopes or motives he may have are hidden behind a mask of absolute loyalty to the state. I suspect he has been dehumanized by all the uncountable death sentences and forced confessions he must have recorded.
    â€œHe never leaves this house.”
    â€œNot never , sir. Just rarely. His legs—”
    â€œDid he go by boat or by land, Alfeo?”
    â€œI honestly do not know.” Innocence