The Alchemist's Pursuit by Dave Duncan Page B

establishments, I opened the door and went in.
    The entrance is a cosy parlor, illuminated by numerous lamps and warmed in winter by a toasty fire, mainly for the benefit of skimpily dressed hostesses. The decor is heavy on red and gold and gilt-framed paintings of nudes that never saw the inside of Titian’s studio. The air was weighty with wine and perfume, and sounds of drunken revelry were audible beyond the door at the back, which leads through to ground floor rooms for those who are short of either time or money and thus cannot afford to linger. The staircase in the corner leads to the owners’ apartments on the piano nobile and then on up to a second commercial area, of higher delights and much higher prices.
    Uttering cries of joy, two girls on duty jumped up to greet me. I rewarded them with a polite smile and headed to the stairs, where scar-faced Antonio perched awkwardly on a stool. On my admittedly rare visits to the brothel when it is open for business, I had never seen the chief guard displayed so prominently. Obviously security was tighter than usual at Number 96 and perhaps at every brothel in the city. Word gets around. Because of the temperature, he was stripped down to a shirt and breeches, which made him look even meaner than he does when respectably dressed, while the contrast with his two delectable companions emphasized his nightmare ugliness. He knows me, but he eyed me distrustfully on principle.
    â€œShe’s still out?” I asked.
    Antonio nodded.
    â€œWith someone known to you? Not masked, I hope.”
    â€œOf course,” he growled. “Think I’m stupid? And we don’t admit friars.”
    So many words had gotten around, and perhaps Honeycat would have to hunt outdoors from now on, as the Maestro’s quatrain suggested.
    â€œI need to speak with Alessa.”
    He frowned and then shrugged. Antonio’s shrugs create drafts. “She’s upstairs. I’ll ask.” He went, striding two treads at a time.
    â€œYou’re Violetta’s doorman aren’t you?” asked the taller of the two seminudes. She advanced predatorily.
    â€œYou should try a little variety,” the other suggested, starting a flanking maneuver.
    â€œYou’re much too cute to waste on just her.”
    â€œBeware!” I cried, retreating into a corner. “Think what Violetta will do to you if you molest my innocence.”
    â€œOn, now I have heard everything!”
    â€œShameless! Who’s going to tell her?”
    â€œI’m here on business!” I protested.
    â€œSo are we.”
    I was saved from an unmentionable fate by a blast of cold air from the outer door, wafting in a couple of drunken sailors, masked for Carnival and eager to open negotiations. While the girls were deftly removing the men’s masks and boosting their ardor, Antonio came clattering down the stairs and beckoned me. I followed him up to where a second bravo guarded the door to the piano nobile .
    Antonio introduced us while he fumbled for the key. “Luigi . . . Alfeo . . . Alfeo’s all right. A friend.” Once inside, he led the way along a dark corridor to Alessa’s door, where he paused, as if suddenly uncertain. “She’s not herself.”
    â€œWhat way not herself?”
    â€œShe’s pretty drunk.”
    â€œVioletta would murder me.”
    The big man chuckled. “So she would.” He stalked away.
    A faint wedge of light showed under the door. As Venice sinks slowly into the mud of the lagoon, its doors and windows—even its walls—forswear right angles in favor of ideas of their own. I tried the handle and went in. Alessa lacks Violetta’s flair for artistic arrangement and her apartment is overly cluttered with expensive knickknackery. I picked my way in near darkness through this forest of glass, ceramic, and plaster until I found her in an armchair in her salotto , huddled close to a dying fire and clad in a