The Alchemist's Apprentice by Dave Duncan

sense.
    â€œDid he have anything worthwhile?”
    â€œThree or four minor pieces.” My master sighed piteously. “An almost complete Book Ten of the Aeneid written in an uncial hand that cannot possibly be later than Eighth Century. Incredible condition, but unmistakably genuine. Possibly the oldest copy known. Then there was something that might be one of the lost plays of Euripides.”
    I gulped down my cud to ask, “Worth killing for?”
    Another sigh. “If genuine it would fetch thousands of ducats.”
    â€œI would kill for that.”
    Nostradamus ignored my repartee. “I arrived early,” he continued, “so I could view the books. I met Imer and Karagounis, and they showed me the manuscripts, all laid out on one long table. I inspected them and agreed that they all appeared to be quite genuine. I remained in my chair—and the Greek stayed with me as if he thought I might grab his treasures and run away with them! I resented his supervision at the time, but now I welcome it, for I cannot be accused of tampering with the wine. I was never near the wine! When the guests arrived, most were shown into the salotto . The prospective buyers came into the dining room to inspect the books with their glasses already in their hands. Eventually our host realized that I had not been offered refreshment and ordered the footman to bring me the wine of my choice.”
    â€œThen the books were auctioned?”
    â€œNothing so crass! Discreet negotiations were to be held later in the evening. When everyone had expressed admiration, we joined the ladies and other gentlemen in the salotto so the servants could lay out a supper in the dining room. Eventually we all went back there, but we had not even started on the antipasto when the procurator was stricken and we all went home.” Again he sighed and his eyes grew quite misty. “The Greek still owns his books. But he is a foreigner. They will suspect him first.” He was conveniently forgetting that he was foreign-born himself, although he had been granted full citizenship as a bribe to move to the city, many years ago. The Republic is notorious for luring all the best doctors in Italy to come and live in Venice.
    I said, “The Greek is not an alchemist, and you are. Sudden death always provokes rumors of poison and most people cannot distinguish between poisoning and witchcraft. That was why you were so crabby yesterday. Also why you sent me out to buy half the poisons in the pharmacopeia—nux vomica, hellebore…You are planning to test each one to find out which creates the same symptoms? Shall I ask Giorgio to bring in his children?”
    â€œFool! I do not know why I put up with you. I knew at once.” The Maestro leaned on his elbows and put his fingertips together, a sure sign that I was about to be lectured. His hands are as delicate as a woman’s. “The patient was an elderly male of choleric temperament. He limped slightly on his right leg and had old trauma scars on his right hand, with some loss of mobility. These were likely related to his reputation as a former war hero. I detected minor flashes of irascibility and hints of dysphasia, which I posited as the onset of dementia senilis . They would not yet be obvious to the layman. His family probably just regarded him as testy. He began to show signs of distress at the supper table—profuse sweating and salivation. I was not at all surprised when he excused himself and got up from his chair.”
    â€œNausea? Urination? The company would forgive an elderly man’s need to visit the closet, surely?”
    â€œBut he stumbled as he turned. A footman caught him and of course I went to assist. I detected an extremely rapid and irregular heartbeat; also some vomiturition. The patient displayed confusion, not recognizing me although we had spoken only minutes earlier. He asked me several times why I was blue.” The Maestro’s