“It was brief but energetic,” I admitted. “We need to get the vizio to a surgeon.”
“I know the best doctor in Venice,” Giorgio said, helping Vasco stand.
Vasco promptly fainted and Giorgio, who has learned many things from being Nostradamus’s gondolier for so long, expertly hoisted him on his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.
I prodded Guarini again and said, “Up, pig.”
31
G iorgio won gondola races in his youth and that morning he spared no effort to speed us homeward. It was a long journey, though, and twice I released the pressure on Vasco’s wrist to let the gash bleed. I knew that if I did not do that, his hand would die before we reached Ca’ Barbolano. I grew steadily more worried that he might do so himself. By the time we arrived in the Rio San Remo, he was comatose, a study in red and snowy white.
Sunday bells were ringing. It was exactly a week since I had crossed swords with Danese on the Riva del Vin, and one day since I had found his corpse at our door. Now I was bringing his murderer in to face justice, and that felt good. Alongside the two Marciana boats at our watergate floated one bearing the winged-lion insignia of the Republic, so Inquisitor Gritti must be an early riser and I would have no chance to report to the Maestro in private. Nevertheless, I was very happy to see the two government boatmen, who jumped up in alarm when they saw Giorgio’s three blood-soaked passengers.
Guarini had not spoken a word since I tied him up, but he must have known he would have ample opportunity and encouragement to talk in the near future. I poked him ashore at swordpoint, leaving the boatmen to bring Vasco. Giorgio had collapsed in a heap to recover from his exertions.
The front door was locked but not bolted. I let us in and we climbed the stairs. To my great relief, the doors to both the Marciana and Barbolano quarters were closed and we arrived unseen at the Maestro’s apartment. Just inside the salone sat the two fanti who had accompanied Gritti the previous day, Marco Martini and Amedeo Bolognetti. They stared in understandable surprise at me and my prisoner, then rose and followed us into the atelier. The conquering hero had returned.
The Maestro was in the red chair with his back to the windows; Gritti nursed a glass of wine on one of the green chairs across the fireplace from him, and a small fire crackled on the hearth between. It was a touching scene, these two black-robed geriatrics at their ease, except that they held the power of life and death over others, including the power to terminate the lives of men who should long outlive them.
I took the Maestro’s expression of extreme disgust as he surveyed us to imply heart-warming praise. “You’re sure you have the right man, Alfeo?”
“Quite certain, master, although he is an incompetent killer. He tried to cut the vizio ’s heart out and succeeded in severing a blood vessel in his wrist, which needs attention. He will be here in a moment.” I looked to Gritti, who was wearing his smiley grandfather mask. His silver locks had been especially polished by a silversmith. “The prisoner can also be charged with deliberately head-butting an officer of the Republic.”
“A serious offense,” the inquisitor said mildly. “Whose blood is that on you, Zeno?”
“Vasco’s.”
The grandfatherly expression hardened as he turned to study the prisoner. “Your name and station?”
“Francesco Guarini, citizen by birth.”
Expectant silence.
“…Your Excellency.”
Gritti nodded. “Take him to the palace, Marco. Put him in the Wells. Come right back.”
Marco and the boatmen removed my prisoner, who went without protest; even the notorious Wells would be little worse than that slum in San Giorgio in Alga, except perhaps at high tide.
I headed over to the medical cupboard as the two boatmen carried in Vasco. He seemed to be aware of what was happening, but not truly conscious. If he died, the Ten would hunt down the witnesses in the magazzen to testify who had killed him, but would the locals lay the blame on Guarini or on me? I brought the Maestro’s bag to the couch, where Vasco was being laid in the same place Danese had occupied the day before.
“Well,” the Maestro said in his cheerful medical voice. “We shall see how Alfeo’s first-aid skills are coming along. Any injuries other than your nose and arm?”
“My pride,” Vasco mumbled. So he was conscious, which was what the Maestro needed to know.
“I can’t treat that,” the Maestro said. “But lots of people get wounded there when they try to keep up with Alfeo.” It was extremely doubtful that his patient had meant it that way. “Alfeo, bring him-”
But I was already there at his elbow with a full glass of wine, raising Vasco enough to let him drink it. “Water and a bucket, master?” I said. “Honey? More wine?”
“Much more wine. You are learning. Fante, bring the scuttle!” As the startled Amedeo obeyed, the Maestro barked, “Without the logs, you fool!” He wanted it to catch the blood while he restored the flow to Vasco’s hand to see if the color returned, but he is accustomed to having me around, able to interpret incomplete orders correctly.
By that time, I was already going out the door. I ran along the salone to the kitchen, which was a madhouse of confusion, with eight or nine Angelis all shouting at the same time and running in eccentric circles. None of them seemed to notice that I was covered in blood. Even allowing for the love of high drama that Mama has nurtured in all her children, a single breakfast guest should not justify such turmoil, but I was too worried to tarry. I snatched up the things I needed and beat a hasty withdrawal back to the atelier.
I discovered that the Maestro had requisitioned Amedeo Bolognetti to assist him as he began stitching up Vasco’s tendons and blood vessels.
“I don’t need you,” he told me when I delivered the honey and wine and replaced the bloody scuttle with the bucket. “Go and make yourself respectable for company.”
More than happy to obey, I made a brief return visit to the riot in the kitchen for some water and then headed to my own room to clean up. As I stripped off, I realized that I was going to have some wonderfully colored bruises to impress Violetta. By tomorrow I would out-spot a leopard. I was still washing when Inquisitor Gritti walked in without knocking. He closed the door, seeming to ignore me as he strolled over to peer out the window.
“So this is the lover’s leap! One forgets how wonderful is youth.”
“All the more reason to enjoy it…Your Excellency.” I was not in a mood to be courteous if he wasn’t and walking in on a man when he has no clothes on is frowned upon in elevated circles.
He turned to look at me, his ruddy, weathered face expressionless. “Tell me what happened this morning.”
To anyone else, I would have retorted that I must report to my master first, but to try that on a state inquisitor would be ridiculous, so I gave him the story from the time we arrived at the Giudecca, verbatim. Not liking the way he was looking at me, as if assessing me for the torture chamber, I threw down my towel and reached for my shirt, the only silk one I own.
“If you are lying about falling downstairs, you went to considerable lengths to obtain supporting evidence.” He was not smiling, so I didn’t.
I didn’t deign to answer at all. I pulled on my white hose-like the shirt, the only silk ones I own. The Maestro’s idea of an adequate clothing allowance for an apprentice is ludicrous. In a city where anyone who matters goes around in funereal black, young males are expected to preen and strut like peacocks, and that is not easy on a soldo here and a soldo there. I was lacing my hose to my shirt when my tormentor spoke again.
“The vizio confirms that his wounds were caused by Guarini, not you.”