The Alchemist's Pursuit by Dave Duncan Page A

anything in the Piazza during Carnival, but nothing came even close to being grass.
    We soon decided that our cause was hopeless there, and so far neither of us had thought of an alternative to Giorgio’s suggestion of San Trovaso, so we set off on foot. The walk warmed us, but we met with no more success. The only grass we located was behind the walls of the rich, and if the murder was to take place on private grounds, we could not hope to intervene. Fulgentio and I abandoned the hunt by mutual consent and set off at a brisk pace, back to San Remo.
    We reached the Trau mansion first and he invited me in for a nightcap. I declined because I still had work to do and I knew that he must be up early to attend to his duties in the palace.
    Leaving Ca’ Trau, I crossed the campo and entered the calle that leads to the back door of Ca’ Barbolano. After one house length it branches. The main branch continues with a single, minor jog, leading to the bridge over the Rio San Remo and the accompanying watersteps; the entrance to Number 96 is there, easily accessible from both land and water and well illuminated to attract customers.
    I turned to the branch going off to my left, which is dark, narrow, and bends several times before reaching the courtyard gate to Ca’ Barbolano, from which it continues somewhat uselessly to the canal. A stray puff of wind blew out my torch.
    Torches don’t do that. Wind makes them burn brighter. The Word is a simple spell for creating fire—a morally neutral one, according to the Maestro, although the church may not agree with him—but even the Word requires the user to be able to see his target. Fortunately I could just make out a faint glow where the tip was still smoking, and no one could see what I was doing on that moonless, cloud-shrouded night. I transferred the torch to my right hand, made the required gesture with the left, and spoke the Word. Blue fire ran over the charred end and yellow flames followed it.
    A voice ahead of me said, “Arghrraw!”
    Low on the ground ahead of me, two eyes glowed golden. Holding my torch high, back in my left hand again, I drew my sword and inched closer.
    â€œArghrraw . . .”
    Venice has several million cats, but they are usually not as loud as that one. Lions and leopards are unknown. So why was I standing around in the cold listening to a cat? It could eat or fight or mate to its heart’s content, so far as I cared. I moved forward again.
    â€œArghrraw . . .”
    Now I could see it better—tail up, back arched. Cats rarely contract rabies, but they are especially vicious when they do. A bite from a rabid cat must be one of the least pleasant ways of going to one’s eternal reward, and I did not trust my swordsmanship against feline reflexes.
    â€œAnd a fine evening to you also, sier Felix,” I said. “Sorry to have disturbed you.” I backed cautiously away and it did not follow.

10
    T he wider calle brought me, of course, to the watersteps and Number 96, whose welcoming lantern still burned, for it was not yet midnight. The land door opens into the waterfront loggia, where half a dozen boatmen sat huddled around a brazier. Their gondolas nodded among the mooring posts outside the arches. Ripples slapped.
    Violetta would not be back yet from the musical salon at Ca’ Grimini, and she would not return alone anyway, so normally I would have gone right on by, walking to the far end of the gallery and then negotiating the ledge to the narrower calle and Ca’ Barbolano. That would have required me to run the gauntlet of the boatmen’s foul ribaldry, of course, but anyone who worries about gondoliers’ manners should never visit Venice. What made me hesitate was not fear of ridicule but the thought of Alessa. Although she had refused to share information with us over dinner, she had now had many hours to reconsider. Ignoring several boatmen’s offers to row me to much better