I hate it when he uses my title for his own ends, but that was the least of my worries by then.
"Master," I said grimly, "you expect me to walk into this man's home and tell him his baby brother, who murdered their father to the family's eternal shame and his own damnation, is back in town with a price on his head, slaughtering prostitutes?"
"What can he do except tell you to leave?"
"Have his boatmen beat me to a pulp."
"No he can't. This is Venice, not France. Nobles can't take justice into their own hands. That is certainly what the lawyers will tell you."
Who believes lawyers?
"And all I want you to do is apply your inestimable skill and experience at judging people to decide whether or not he already knows that his brother is back. They may be hiding him in that palace of theirs."
"In that case they'll cut my throat," I said glumly. "Or they may accuse me of attempted blackmail, after the Council of Ten has already warned me off once. Next letter?"
"Do it in good. To sier Carlo Celsi…"
That was better. I like old Carlo.
12
I went on foot because I needed the exercise. Jostling and dodging through the teeming alleyways of the city on a busy morning is a good all-over workout. Besides, if I had asked Giorgio to row me there, he would have wanted to wait for me and that might have cost him his whole morning. Sometimes Celsi has a room full of people waiting to see him, on other days he lacks company and will talk for hours. Celsi is the unofficial archivist of the city, constantly scribbling, filling tome after tome with accounts of all political and historical events, and even the major social ones. If anybody outside the inner circle of the nobility knew the truth about the Michiel scandal, it would be Celsi. He has never been one of the inner circle, for he is a blabbermouth and the First Ones prefer to act in silence, but he has ways of finding out what they have been up to. Even Violetta does not know as much about the doings of the nobility as Celsi does, so the Maestro consults him quite often. But Violetta can keep secrets and never expects any quids pro quos.
His living quarters are modest, shabby, smelling of ink, largely taken up with bookshelves. Vittore, his servant, knows me and always greets me with a cryptic smile, as if my arrival is no surprise. He offered me refreshment, which I declined, and assured me that the noble lord would be delighted to see me as soon as his present visitor departed. That might be hours yet, so I made myself comfortable and went back to puzzling over the Honeycat affair.
If Zorzi Michiel had not committed that horrible crime, then why had he fled? Had he perhaps been frolicking with one of his many courtesan friends at the time and later she had refused to give him an alibi? That might explain one courtesan death, but surely even Honeycat could not have been with three and all three given false witness? That stretched conjecture to fatuity, as the Maestro says. No, the obvious answer was that flight had been the only possible defense as soon as he realized he was under suspicion. The Ten allow no counsel, no open trial, no right to face accusers, no appeal. Prisoners may be found guilty without knowing their crimes and jailed without being told their sentences. Worse, like other states, Venice allows torture in serious criminal cases and none could be more serious than Zorzi's.
Of course the Strangler might not be Zorzi Michiel, merely someone using his name to gain access to his victims. Either way, I was still at a loss to imagine why he was killing courtesans.
After ten minutes or so, the inner door opened and out stalked a man I had met two days before, Senator Marco Avonal. Recognition was mutual. His face darkened; I smiled angelically-I practice that in a mirror. I sprang to my feet and bowed low.
"Clarissimo! An unexpected pleasure!" I straightened up just as the outer door banged shut behind him. Oh dear, what a shame…
"Sier Alfeo! I might have known," chirruped old Celsi. "Come in, come in, dear boy. Sit down, sit there."
He dragged me bodily into his sanctum, which might charitably be described as a box of four bookcases with a fireplace and two chairs. The window was partially blocked by a stand-up desk, on which lay a folio volume of blank sheets, ready to receive more news. He poured me a glass of red wine.
"You must try this ghastly French brew. So Nostradamus is dipping into the pot, is he? He's after the Strangler?"
Carlo Celsi is a year older than the Maestro, but still as spry as a mouse. He is very short-not reaching up to my shoulder-and rotund, sporting a mass of silver curls all over his lower face and out from under his hat. I have never seen him anything but pert, happy, and effusive.
"I brought his-"
"Does it say anything?" Celsi demanded, grabbing the proffered letter, "except that he wants you to pick my brains and tell me nothing in return?"
"No. That's it exactly."
"Good." My host dropped the letter in a wastebasket, unopened. "Sit, sit! You haven't changed your preferences since the last time you were here, have you, dear chap?"
"No, clarissimo." I always have to wade this river when I call on Celsi.
"What a tragedy! Well, drink up, and tell me why Nostradamus is interested in a few dead whores."
"Money, of course," I said. "And why is sier Carlo interested in Senator Marco Avonal? Because he discovered a body and turned in the jewelry, when he could have better pocketed it himself or given the proceeds to charity? Did he have some special reason for wanting the deceased identified?"
Celsi chuckled, leaned back in his chair, and took a sip of the wine, which I had already decided must be one of the most expensive vintages I had ever tasted. "He was here because I wrote and asked him to explain that. Of course he wants to be immortalized in the annals of the Republic, so he came in person to give me the entire story and make sure I spelled his name the way he likes it. What do you think of it, dear Alfeo?"
"I think he may be telling the truth."
The old man sighed. "So do I, unfortunately. No underlying scandal at all! Some people are appallingly inconsiderate."
"Was he in Milan?"
"Yes-and he returned with the others. I already checked."
"His Excellency puzzles me, though. He has a squeaky voice, belongs to a small and obscure house, lives with shameful thrift, and is barely adult by Venetian political standards, so how does he get elected to the Senate?"
Celsi sniggered affectedly as he does when he has a gem to impart. "The Contarini campaign, dear boy!"
"Which Contarini?" The Contarinis are a huge clan.
"The ambassador to Rome. The Great Council waxed very mad at him just before Christmas. It couldn't hurt him directly-only the Senate could recall him-but every time the Council had a vacancy of any sort to fill, it would nominate three other Contarinis plus a nonentity, then elect the nonentity. When it put Avonal into the Senate itself, that was the last straw. The Senate recalled Contarini in self-defense." He chuckled. "They only sent Avonal along on the Milan junket to get a respite from his efforts to make speeches. At the end of his term he will vanish back into well-deserved obscurity.
"So what is your master after this time?" He took a sip of wine to mask his appraising look at me. "He expects me to tell you who killed three harlots and what the Council of Ten is doing about it, mm?"
I couldn't resist that lead. "No. We know all that." My turn for a sip.
"You cherub! You do? You will swear to that? I have a reliquary somewhere with a holy toenail paring of Saint Theophilus of Bulgaria."
I backed down a little. "We know to a high degree of probability. No, Nostradamus wonders if you would comment on the death of Gentile Michiel and his son's exile."