That was a very good question, for which I had no good answer. “He has his reasons, madame, which I am not permitted to-”
An explosion of consonants from the doorway spun me around. Sir Bellamy had returned. He was older than Hyacinth and surprisingly short for a man married to a woman so large; he wore clothes that looked more Tuscan than local, but he was sporting a ruff the size of a millwheel and an absurd pointed mustache, neither of which even a Florentine would have willingly been buried in. He was pale with rage, which was understandable-and he wore a sword, which was disturbing.
I bowed and for the moment was ignored.
His wife answered him in the same guttural language, which I assumed was English, but she did not seem in the least discomfitted at being caught alone with a young man in the connubial bedchamber. She gestured at the paintings and pulled a face in my direction. I caught the Maestro’s name.
Feather was very loud and very furious. Hyacinth shrugged and continued to answer calmly.
“What is it that you want?” he demanded of me. His accent was not quite as bad as his wife’s.
“Two nights ago, at the residence of citizen Imer, observed you a man in purple robes?”
“And two in red. It was more a coronation than a book sale. Answer me! Why do you come here pestering my wife?” He had his hand on his sword. He was fizzing with rage and he was between me and the doorway. This was no time for finesse.
I waved my hands to show that they were empty and I was unarmed. “To warn you, monseigneur, and your noble wife. The older man, the one with the purple robes and the fancy-” I had to gesture to my shoulder, for my French did not extend to the word for tippet. “Procurator Orseolo. He was poisoned at that meeting. Everyone who was present is suspect. You have heard of the Council of Ten?”
“You work for the government?”
“No, messer.”
Feather drew his sword. “You dare come here and threaten me, you young-” Fortunately, he reverted to English, although the gist was obvious. He came towards me.
I started backing. “I am unarmed, messer. What you are doing is a very serious offense in this city.”
“So is forcing yourself into a lady’s bedroom!”
Her word against mine, although if the judges ever saw the size of the potential victim, they would laugh the case out of court. Meanwhile, the crazy Inglese was out for blood. I backed rapidly to the pictures and grabbed San Sebastiano to be my shield and defender, while sending a quick prayer of apology to the saint.
“Put that down!” Feather screamed. “Drop it!”
“Put up your sword, clarissimo. I wish only to leave in peace. You will not improve the holy man by adding sword wounds to his troubles.” I kept half an eye on the doughty Hyacinth. If she got behind me, she could garotte me with her bare hands.
“Depart!” he bellowed, pointing at the door. For a small man he was both loud and ferocious.
“I will follow you, clarissimo. Madame, if you would be so kind as to go and open the outer door? Then you lead, messer. San Sebastiano and I will follow.”
“Come, Sir Bellamy,” his wife said. “The boy will not turn his back on your sword.” She led the way, moving with majesty.
It took some more calming talk from me before he followed her, reluctantly walking backwards, not taking his eyes off me. I kept my eyes on him as I edged out through the outer door, dropped the saint at the top of the stairs where he would obstruct pursuit, and took off downward like a rat diving into its hole.
9
C arnival revelers were starting to emerge in the alleys and on the canals, the lights had been lit in the corner shrines. Christoforo and Corrado had not drunk themselves stupid and drowned, as I had feared. They were sitting in the bow of the gondola, so obviously pleased with themselves that their father was threatening to send them to confession first thing in the morning.
“I did not give them enough for that,” I said. If I were mistaken, then they would need the Maestro’s professional care very shortly.
“How much did you give them?” he asked narrowly.
“Didn’t they tell you?”
“They said two soldi apiece.”
Blessed Lady help me! I bit the bullet. “Giorgio, I know this isn’t any of my business, but I was their age not so very long ago. My mother was desperately poor, but she let me keep all my earnings as long as I paid for half our groceries. I ate three times what she did, so that was fair, and I learned what honest work was for.” I sighed and said the rest of it: “You are teaching them to tell lies.”
He glowered, but he is a reasonable man at heart. “You gave them more than four soldi?”
“Just believe I gave them four to pass on to you. Now take us all home, please, before I starve to death.”
I took my seat inside the felze, but when we were underway I beckoned Christoforo to join me-Corrado is more canny.
“How much did you win?”
His face puckered with guilt. “Me? Eight soldi. Corrado got six.”
“And what would you have done if you’d lost it all?”
“We weren’t going to gamble it all.”
“You did very well to stop when you were ahead, but believe me, you will lose it all the next time. Gambling is for fools. Tell your brother I said so.” I knew my advice would drive them to exactly the opposite course, because that was how I had reacted at their age. But now they must have enough money to buy a harlot of the lowest sort, so they would be better off losing it at dice. Sometimes life seems unnecessarily complicated.
Back at Ca’ Barbolano, I found the Maestro gone, but my side of the desk upholstered with pages of scrawl. He works that hard only when he is seriously frustrated by something, and it invariably means twice as much work for me. He had been at the crystal ball again, too, for the velvet lay on the floor and the slate was adorned with drunken snail tracks. I left that problem until later-I tend to be prejudiced against the crystal, because it never shows me anything except my next encounter with Violetta. The Maestro says I will outgrow that. I say I don’t want to.
I began by re-shelving all the books, mostly herbals and ephemerides. The reagents I had bought the previous day I stowed in the appropriate bottles, out of reach of any Angeli toddler who might stray into the atelier. After I had mixed the unguent for madonna Polo, I dusted the entire collection of bottles and shelves to leave no evidence that digitalis had ever been present.
Then I lit the lamp over my desk and inspected the litter. The Maestro insists that everything be kept tidy, but is himself the untidiest of men. He had completed three pages of next year’s almanac and four scribbled horoscopes that were the routine jobs I had expected to do that day until murder intervened. He had even made all the calculations, probably more to keep his own mind occupied than out of consideration for me. A fifth horoscope, identified only as “PM,” was obviously the doge and I did not like the look of his immediate future. If you identified him with the Republic itself, which was legitimate synecdoche, and the Republic as Queen of the Sea with the planet Venus, the current conjunction with Saturn was as ominous as it had been for Orseolo. The Maestro posited that the ascendant Turkish Empire should be equated with the moon in some circumstances, and in that case the aspects were even worse. If he had not yet answered Pietro Moro’s mocking challenge to read the name of the murderer in the stars, at least he had found some evidence regarding the name of the intended victim. As I was tucking all the papers away in my work drawer with a bundle of routine letters, including the papal piles, out fell a letter addressed to me.
It had been opened, of course, although I recognized Violetta’s scent on the paper, and he would have done so also. The contents were terse:
Lover-The ball is canceled. Come and entertain me tonight.