Murder at Midnight (7 page)

F
ABRIZIO BACKED UP
.

“Fabrizio,” cried Maria, “there are two black robes!”

Sure enough, two figures, one tall, one short, both cloaked in black robes, loomed out of the eddying fog. One of the figures was about Mangus’s height.

Fabrizio could not restrain himself. “Master!” he called. No reply came. The black robes vanished into the fog.

“Was that your master?” asked Maria, her voice hushed.

“I thought so, but I really don’t know. Maria, I need to go to his house.”

He gazed around, trying to get his bearings. “I’ll take you home first. But we need to be careful. The curfew is still on. DeLaBina’s soldiers are always on patrol. We’re not supposed to be on the street.”

“What if they see us?”

“We’d go back to prison.”

“My house is on the Street of the Wood Sellers.”

“Stay close!”

They hurried along, halting frequently to make sure they were not caught on the deserted streets. Once, they heard the tramp of footsteps. “The watch!” hissed Fabrizio. They hid behind some barrels.

“We’d better wait for a while,” he suggested.

They settled back, keeping close for warmth and trying to be patient. Exhausted, at one point Fabrizio even dozed. So did Maria.

With a start, Fabrizio woke. The fog had thinned.

A faint glow to the east suggested dawn as the dark of night gave way to the iron blue of daylight. Cocks crowed. Pigeons fluttered. A dog barked and a hungry donkey brayed. As the cathedral bells tolled the hour, Fabrizio and Maria ran through the city’s narrow, crooked streets, avoiding puddles of thin overnight ice. At every corner Fabrizio halted and surveyed what lay ahead.

“Your street is there,” Fabrizio finally announced, pausing at yet another corner.

Maria poked her head around. With a start she pulled back.

“What’s the matter?” asked Fabrizio.

“There’s a soldier sitting in front of my house.”

Fabrizio looked. A soldier dressed in a green court uniform was leaning against the front door of a small, flat-roofed, two-story house. Across his knees lay a sword.

“A king’s soldier,” said Fabrizio. “They aren’t the usual night watch. Count Scarazoni controls them.”

“Why would Scarazoni send a soldier to my house?”

“I don’t know.”

Fabrizio took a second look. “I think he’s sleeping.”

“We still won’t be able to get in.”

“Is there a back door?”

Maria nodded. They scampered down the street and around to the rear alley. The corner house had an old thick grapevine growing high against the wall. Pushing aside the brittle brown leaves, Maria and Fabrizio looked into the dirt alleyway.

It wasn’t hard to pick out Maria’s house. Another soldier was posted against a faded blue back door. He sat with legs stretched before him and a sword in easy reach.

Fabrizio gazed at him. “I have an idea,” he said. “If I went along the alley and yelled something to get that
soldier to chase me, you could race into the house. Are you fast?” he asked.

“Fast enough,” said Maria. “But if he catches you, does that mean you’ll go back to prison?”

“Don’t worry. I can get past him. Then I’ll circle back around and slip in. If I can’t, I’ll wait for you here. For a while, anyway. You’re the one who has to get by him. You know what they say: A first chance is worth fifty second ones.”

Maria, her face solemn, nodded.

“All right,” said Fabrizio. “Here I go.”

“Fabrizio …”

“What?”

Maria gave him a hug. “You’re the only one in this whole city I like.”

“Even though I’m stupid?”

She grinned. “I was wrong. You’re smart.”

Fabrizio stepped out from around the corner, took a quick look back at Maria, and ambled down the alley. Acting as if there were nothing in his mind, he kept his eyes fixed on the soldier.

As Fabrizio drew closer, the soldier shifted his head slightly.

He’s pretending to be asleep,
thought Fabrizio.
Good.

When he came within thirty feet of the soldier, he saw the man’s hand move stealthily toward the hilt of his sword.

Fabrizio ran past the soldier yelling, “Asleep! Asleep on duty!”

The soldier bolted up and groped for his sword. Trying to do both things made his movement awkward. “Halt!” he shouted. “In the name of the king! Halt!” He staggered after Fabrizio.

Fabrizio reached the alley’s end. “Asleep! Asleep!” he jeered. He tore around the corner, plunged into the first recessed doorway, and pressed himself flat.

Moments later the soldier clumped by, yelling, “Halt! Halt!”

As soon as he passed, Fabrizio sprang from his hiding place and ran back to the faded blue door. He shoved it open, leaped inside, and slammed the door shut behind him. Where was Maria?

A
LITTLE LIGHT SEEPED THROUGH THE SHUTTERED
window, enough to allow Fabrizio to see that he was standing in a small room. Save for a pair of old and broken leather boots that lay upon the rough wooden floor, it was empty. He heard nothing. With care, he crept into a larger, darker room. It was heaped with household goods: pots, clothing, and a collapsed chair. Shreds of paper lay strewn about like feathers from a broken bed. On one paper, Fabrizio saw a bit of the treasonous message. Its letters were smeared.

“Maria?” he called softly.

Hearing a slight wheezing noise, he stepped into the next room. Maria was leaning back against the far wall, arms tight around her stomach. She was shaking. Tears slid down her inky cheeks.

“What is it?” Fabrizio whispered.

Maria shook her head as if not capable of answering.

Fabrizio gazed around the room. In the middle lay a jumble of wooden frames. Sticking out from the heap were
heavy metal tubes and one huge screw. There were shallow boxes with multiple small compartments. To Fabrizio it seemed to be little more than a pile of junk.

Scraps of paper lay scattered about, while hundreds of small metal pieces — like wildly sown wheat — were strewn everywhere. And every surface of the room — walls, floor, even the low ceiling — was spotted, stained, and blotched by a dark liquid that dripped and pooled onto the floor like black blood.

“Are your parents here?” Maria shook her head.

“What’s that?” Fabrizio asked, gesturing toward the heap.

Maria sniffed and dabbed at her tears with a strand of her red hair. “Our printing press.”

“That’s the machine you were talking about? The one that made the papers?”

Maria nodded.

Fabrizio bent over and picked up one of the small metal pieces. It was rectangular, half an inch long, with a notch
in its shank and smeared with black goo. There seemed to be something engraved at one end. Fabrizio gazed at it, gradually realizing he was looking at a raised letter, his own name letter, the letter
F.
Backward. He held it up. “What’s this?”

“Type.”

“A type … of what?”

“A
piece
of type.” Maria’s voice was thick with frustration. “A letter.”

Fabrizio tried to shake the metal bit off his fingers, but the black ooze made it stick. He had to pick it off.

“What’s … what’s all this black stuff?” he asked.

“Ink.”

Fabrizio looked at Maria quizzically, then bent over and poked a finger into one of the dark pools. His finger came up black. He smelled it. It had a sweet, oily odor. When he wiped it off on his tunic, it left a dark smear.

“Why would someone destroy our printing press?” asked Maria.

“Maybe so no one would know how you made the papers. Perhaps DeLaBina.” He waited for her to say something. She only sniffed.

“Maria — I have to go to my master’s house. I need to see if he really got out of the prison and returned home. He probably doesn’t want to see me, but I’d feel better knowing he’s there. Since your parents aren’t here … maybe we should go together.”

When she made no response, Fabrizio peeked out through the front shutters and then the back. “Soldiers still front and back,” he reported.

Maria shrugged with indifference.

Fabrizio wandered around and found steep ladderlike steps leading up to the second floor. Upstairs there were two rooms, each with a rumpled bed, some chests, and small windows.

In one ceiling Fabrizio noticed a small, recessed square. He studied it for a moment before going back down. He found Maria kneeling beside the printing press wreckage, trying to fit two pieces together.

“I think it can be mended.” She sounded more hopeful.

“Good.” Fabrizio was not very interested. “I’m pretty sure I found a way to get out without being seen. I’ll show you.”

Maria put the pieces together and followed Fabrizio up to one of the bedrooms.

“My parents’ room,” she said softly.

Fabrizio pointed to the square cut into the ceiling. “I’m sure that opens. We can get out that way.”

“What if my parents come home?”

“You don’t know when that might be. It could even be tomorrow.”

Maria’s eyes welled with tears.

“I promise,” said Fabrizio. “We’ll only go see if my master got home. Then we’ll come back. I just don’t think you should stay alone.”

Maria sighed. “All right,” she said.

The two of them lifted the chest onto the bed. Maria climbed up and was able to push the square to one side. Above was nothing but blue sky.

Maria grabbed the rim of the opening and hoisted herself up and out. Once atop the roof, she lay flat and reached down to help Fabrizio. In moments, they were both on the roof.

Fabrizio looked around. “This way,” he said.

They scampered over the roofs to the corner house. The old grapevine had grown high, curled over the roof, and attached itself to the corner chimney.

Fabrizio lay on his stomach and shook the vine. “It should hold us.”

He grabbed the thickest part of the vine, swung a foot down, and felt about until he was sure he had support. Once he did, he climbed down, the leaves hiding him from view. In moments he reached the street. Maria soon joined him.

With Fabrizio leading the way, they ran until they had reached Mangus’s house. Fabrizio rushed to the door, but when he tried to open it, it would not budge.

He pounded on it. When there was still no reply, he pounded again.

After a few moments they heard the sound of a shifting bolt inside. The door eased open a crack. An eye peered out.

“It’s me, Fabrizio! Let me in!”

The door swung all the way open. Standing there was Prince Cosimo.

F
ABRIZIO BACKED AWAY FROM THE DOOR.
M
ARIA, JUST
behind him, asked, “Who is it?”

“The king’s son,” Fabrizio whispered. “The one who sent me to be executed.”

Prince Cosimo stood in the doorway, staring at Fabrizio. Though he was dressed as elegantly as when Fabrizio last saw him in the Hall of Justice, he seemed uncertain what to do. He kept fingering his thin mustache, while his gaze shifted nervously from Fabrizio to Maria, then back again. His eyes were ringed by darkness.

“My … lord …” Fabrizio managed to say, “is my master, Signor Mangus … here?”

“I thought … you were … gone.”

“Gone, my lord? With permission, I’m … right here.”

The prince hesitated, then, as if making up his mind, he abruptly beckoned the boy inside.

Fabrizio stepped forward, turning to include Maria. She looked at the prince, asking permission. When he gave a curt nod, she pressed in close to her friend.

The prince shut the door and bolted it. “Go into your master’s study,” he commanded.

“Is … he all right?” asked Fabrizio.

“Didn’t you hear me?” barked Cosimo. “Go!”

“Yes, my lord.” Fabrizio, making sure Maria stayed with him, went forward. When he reached Mangus’s study, he looked back.

The prince was watching him intently.

Fabrizio darted a glance at Maria, held his breath, and pulled the door open.

Light from the skull’s glowing eyes revealed books scattered, and papers and parchment strewn helter-skelter. On the table lay an open book. Fabrizio recognized it as the magic book he’d been secretly studying.

He turned around. Prince Cosimo had followed them into the room and was watching them closely. His face was tense, his eyes wide.

He’s frightened,
thought Fabrizio. “My lord, do you know where my master is?”

“Did … did he not send you here?” said the prince.

“The last time I saw him was in a prison cell. In the Hall of Justice.”

“Ah! Well, yes, I visited him there, too. He … he told me that he believed Magistrato DeLaBina made these treasonous papers. That he was being used by the magistrato for his own reasons.” The prince gestured toward the papers that still lay on the table.

“I asked him if he would make that accusation to His Majesty. When he said he would, I … I left him in search of a more comfortable room. When I returned … he was gone. Vanished. Magic, I thought. After all, he is a magician, isn’t he? He should have stayed. I … I was trying to help him.”

“My lord,” said Fabrizio, “we think we saw him beyond the hall, walking through the fog.”

“Did you!”

“He was with someone,” Maria added.

“Who?” cried the prince, clearly alarmed.

“We couldn’t see,” said Fabrizio. “It was too foggy, and the people were wearing black robes. Like that one.”

Fabrizio pointed to a robe that hung by the side of the door.

The prince shifted from foot to foot. He was growing more agitated. “Very well. I’ll tell you what happened to your master.”

“Do you know?”

“I fear —”

“Has he been killed?” cried Fabrizio.

The prince started to speak, stopped, and then said, “I believe Count Scarazoni took him away to the Castello.”

“Scarazoni!” Fabrizio and Maria said at the same time.

“You said you saw him with someone. I’ve no doubt it was Scarazoni.”

“But why?” asked Fabrizio.

“The count intends to put Mangus on trial.” The prince’s voice was growing more confident.

“Trial! For what reason?”

“Everyone knows magic is illegal in Pergamontio. My father fears it greatly. He believes what DeLaBina said, that
Mangus made those papers, magically, on behalf of someone. I’m quite sure that
someone
is Scarazoni. He’s trying to overthrow my father. To conceal the truth and to protect himself, the count is … prepared to sacrifice your master. If your master is found guilty of doing magic, he’ll be put to death.

“Alas,” concluded the prince, “I can only do so much. My father has great trust in Scarazoni. I’m afraid he won’t believe me if
I
tell him Scarazoni is the traitor. There … there’s only one way your master can save himself.”

Fabrizio struggled to make sense of the prince’s words. “How?”

“Mangus must force the count to confess his crime.”

“Is that why Scarazoni took my master, to keep him from doing that?”

“That appears to be so,” said the prince.

Fabrizio, trying to absorb all the prince had said, looked around. He glanced at the open book of magic. “My lord,” he asked, “why are you here?”

“It’s my duty to protect the king. Believing your master is innocent, I came here in search of evidence to establish
his innocence. In the same fashion I sent you to be executed — to protect you.”

“Protect me from whom, my lord?”

“Count Scarazoni. And Magistrato DeLaBina. It was I who told the king to release you.”

“Was it?” said Fabrizio. “I thank you. I thought it was the king. But, my lord, perhaps you don’t know: DeLaBina is dead.”

“Dead?”
cried the prince.

“Murdered,” said Maria.

The prince seemed at a loss for words. “How do you know?”

“We saw his body, my lord,” said Fabrizio.

“There was … a dagger in his back,” Maria added.

“When … when did this happen?” asked the prince.

“Last midnight,” said Maria.

“Have you … have you any idea who did it?”

“We heard DeLaBina arguing with someone in the halls,” said Fabrizio.

“And,” said Maria, “we saw the hilt of the dagger that killed him. It was covered with red rubies.”

The prince looked grave. “A dagger like that belongs to King Claudio.”

“My lord,” said Fabrizio, “do you think someone stole it?”

“The count and the magistrato were trying to wrest power from His Majesty. But they quarreled. I have no doubt — the count stole my father’s dagger and killed DeLaBina.”

“A short time later we think we spoke to the one who killed him.”

“Did you?” The prince placed his hand on his dagger as if prepared to act. “Who was it?”

“My lord,” said Maria, “we didn’t see his face. He was wrapped in a black robe.”

“Scarazoni wears such a robe,” said the prince.

“If you say so,” said Fabrizio.

“And now,” the prince continued, “the count has your master. Not only do I fear for his life, but King Claudio is in great danger.” He moved toward the door. “I need to warn him.”

“My lord!” called Fabrizio. “Will you tell him you believe that my master is innocent? That Scarazoni is the true enemy?”

The prince hesitated. “The count is very powerful. But I will try.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Fabrizio. “Just one more question. The other night when my master performed at the Sign of the Crown, were you there? In a black robe? Like that.” He pointed to the one that hung on the wall.

“Of course not,” said the prince. “I don’t usually mingle with common people.” The prince stepped into the hallway.

“At that performance,” said Fabrizio, following after him, “there was another black robe. We don’t know who he was.”

“Does it matter?” said the prince.

“That black robe sent a warning to my master.”

The prince swung around. “A warning about what?”

“He said, ‘Tell your master he’s in grave danger.’”

The prince stared at Fabrizio, then abruptly
turned back down the hall, only to pause and say, “Boy, let us hope Mangus can convince the king that Scarazoni is guilty. Only that will save his life. As for your own safety, I advise you, beyond all else, avoid Scarazoni. He won’t hesitate a moment before killing you, too.”