The trabacolo, Tristão says, is called the Lynceus. Its crew expects to sail for Trieste, of course, but for the right sum, I imagine they will go anywhere in the Adriatic. Any port you might wish.
Crivano stares at Tristão. Then his eyes sink to the rush-strewn laboratory floor, tracing patterns in the matted carpet of dry stalks and coarse sand. A few specks move there: weevils, beetles, fleas, the tiny spiders that hunt them. Impossible from this height to tell which are which. Crivano could slide from his chair and come to rest among them, could spend the rest of his life watching their microscopic intrigues. In his very vastness he would be invisible: a peculiar new mountain.
The Church of Saint Jeremy rings the first bell; Saint Jerome echoes it a moment later, along with others. Crivano rises, walks past Tristão to look out the west-facing windows. The sun-absented sky has turned an angry violet.
Even now, Crivano says, sbirri comb the streets for me. But the Council of Ten is ignorant of your involvement. Am I not right?
You are correct.
It knows nothing of Serena and his family? Nor of Obizzo?
The Council now seeks to arrest Serena. He is known to have had dealings with you. But he and his family are already in hiding — I sent them an alarm — and I believe they will reach the Cerberus safely. The Council knows of Obizzo, of course; it has sought him for years, due to his collusion in his brother’s escape. But it does not suspect that he works the canals of the city as a boatman.
And what of Perina? Do they know of Perina?
They do not.
You’re sure? I visited her at the convent. Perhaps they saw me.
You visited her at the senator’s behest. It is not suspicious.
I sent a linkboy to her last night, bearing a cryptic message.
I intercepted that linkboy. I replaced him with one in my own service. Your message will lead no one to her. Rest assured, Vettor, that among our present company you alone are hotly pursued.
Crivano falls silent. A solitary blue cloud darkens the air over the mountains, rushing forward on a terrible wind, changing shape as it approaches. For a moment it resembles a crawling thing crushed on a pane of dark glass; then it becomes a gob of spit, dripping from fine dyed satin. Then it simply looks like a cloud. Crivano is weary; he wants to sleep, un-goaded by dreams. I have no wish to go to Amsterdam, he says.
I thought not. We can put you aboard the Lynceus on our way to Mestre. You have money left from the haseki sultan?
Oh yes. Letters of advice.
If you like, Tristão says, I can send my servants into the Ghetto to redeem them for precious stones. Jewels are safer, perhaps, than are your letters. And prices here are reasonably good.
You still haven’t answered my question. How can we be sure that the sbirri will follow me, and not you?
Tristão steps closer, puts a warm hand on Crivano’s upper arm. This is difficult, my friend, he says. Circumstance compels me to charge you with a heavy task.
You’re going to tell them that I’m on the Lynceus.
They will not learn this, Tristão whispers, until we are all aboard Obizzo’s boat. I know of informants whose eyes watch the Cannaregio Canal. As we depart, we shall take pains to ensure that those eyes fall upon us. After last night’s escapades, you surely will be recognized at once. Yet even with the most fleet of messengers at their disposal, even with the sturdiest of oarsmen, the sbirri will be unable to intercept us until we’ve reached the Lynceus, whereupon they will find our red-lanterned trabacolo racing for the open sea, and Obizzo’s sandolo cast adrift.
You’re exchanging boats, as well?
Of course. The Lynceus will have a shallow-drafted riverboat — a topo, this type is called — roped to its north side. If Fortune smiles, we will cross the lagoon at peak tide, passing over sandbars that will obstruct any who would apprehend us. But I do not think we will be pursued.
Because the sbirri will be chasing the Lynceus. They’ll be chasing me.
They will try to board you in the lagoon. Likely they will try to blockade you at San Nicolò. They may fire on you from the Lido, as well. The crew of the Lynceus is well-armed and lawless, disinclined to surrender. I think you will escape.
The sbirri will see me on the quarterdeck. They’ll know I’m aboard, and they’ll infer the presence of the mirrormakers. Thereafter, the spies of the Council of Ten will track me wherever I go. Their assassins will seek my trail in every Mediterranean port.
Tristão moves his hand from Crivano’s arm to the back of his neck. The skin of his palm is dry and smooth. If you can leave Christian lands entirely, he says, it would be better for you, I think.
I may not be welcome in Constantinople any longer.
It is a large world, my friend. With many places in it, and great empty distances for vanishing. You could sail for Alexandria, for instance. Or Tripoli.
Or Cyprus.
Yes. There is always Cyprus.
Crivano shrugs off Tristão’s hand, moves along the counter to examine the athanor. The fluid in the cucurbit is motionless, its color unaltered, but liquid is beading in the alembic above. How long does it take? he asks. Your method?
The time varies. No less than three weeks. Often a month or more.
And yet you intend to depart tomorrow night?
Yes, Tristão says. This process yields reductions and coagulates that are stable and portable after sixteen hours. I intend to collect them before we go. Also, if sbirri crash through our doors tonight, I want to be able to show them this, and to say: No, of course I am not planning to flee your city! Look here — I have just begun a complex operation that is to last a full month!
Crivano manages a sour smile. He presses a knuckle to the cucurbit’s warm glass, then withdraws it. Lowering his eyes, he scans the assemblies of vessels and devices, the use-disordered rows of chemicals and herbs. Though his limbs remain still, his muscles flex and extend, recalling the automatic gestures of a working magus. To open a window onto a world of ideal forms, to know the mind of God: these are the goals of his art. But Crivano is surprised at how many of his fond memories of the laboratory are bodily — akin to his recollections of janissary calisthenics, or of kick-ball games he learned as a boy. The rules were arbitrary; you practiced until you moved without thought. Those were ideal worlds, too, weren’t they?
I’ve been thinking of your mirrored alembic, Crivano says. And also of a passage in the Corpus Hermeticum that the Nolan saw fit to cite, about the instance of reflection that induces Man to descend from Heaven and inhabit the Earth. He looks down; He sees His own perfect shape reflected in Her waters. So arises our double nature: mortal flesh, housing immortal souls.
Tristão nods, but seems distracted. He reaches for the water-pitcher and empties it into the chamberpot, rinsing the wooden rod and the long spoon as he pours. When the water is gone, he sets the pitcher on the counter. Then he lifts the chamberpot, swirling it in his right hand.
Indeed, he says. But here we should be cautious. Often we are told, and rightly so, that we can know God by knowing ourselves, for we are made in His image. We are not base, it is said, but divine. Yet this, perhaps, is saying too much. For even in our baseness — in our excrement — we might discern the work of our Creator.
All things come from God, Crivano says. Even shit can be sublimed.
But should it be?
Tristão fixes Crivano with a fierce glare. Then he steps to the windows, and with a smooth sudden motion slings the chamberpot’s contents into the canal below. The liquid strikes the surface with a weak slap.