Order Of Darkness - Fools' Gold Part 10

'It's not Arabic,' Ishraq said. 'Though some of the symbols are like Arabic symbols.' She pointed to one sign. 'This one, and perhaps these.'

'It's no language that I recognise,' Luca said. 'Have you shown it to a Russian? Or to someone from the East?'

Drago shook his head. 'Not yet. I hoped to be able to understand it on my own, but I have studied it for months now, and I see that I need help.'

'I don't recognise these plants,' Ishraq said. 'I've never even seen them, not in the garden, not in a herbal. Do you know them?'

Luca did not answer her. He was looking at the writing and scribbling something down. Ishraq immediately fell silent, and looked from Luca's notes to the ma.n.u.script.

'It might be a cipher,' he said. 'A code.'

'Based on what?' Drago Nacari whispered, as if he feared being overheard.

'Based on old numbers,' Luca said. 'Latin numbers. I, II, III and so on. Look here,' he pointed to a string of words. 'These words recur: "or, or, or, oro". These could be code for numbers. How old is this ma.n.u.script?'

Drago shook his head. 'Not more than fifty years old, I believe.'

'And who was the author?'

'I don't know. I only have a few pages of it. I believe it was written in Italy, but I had it from a scholar who had a library in Paris.'

'A Frenchman?'

Drago hesitated. 'No. I had it from an English lord. He was a great philosopher, but he was not the author. He was . . . He was with the English court in Paris.' He broke off and saw that Ishraq was scrutinising him with a narrowed dark gaze.

'What was his name?' she asked bluntly.

'I cannot tell you.'

'Was he a wise man?' she asked. 'Did he know the language of birds?'

He smiled at her. 'Yes, yes he did.'

'What is the language of birds?' Luca asked curiously.

Drago answered him. 'It is the coded speech of alchemists.'

'So this book was owned by an alchemist, and it is not likely to be written in either English or French. More likely to be based on Italian or perhaps Latin?'

'And it is not a chimera?' Ishraq asked the alchemist directly. 'You spend your mornings helping your daughter deceive people. This is not another deceit? Not simply a pretence? We cannot waste our time on a sleight of hand.'

'My daughter earns her keep,' he said defensively. 'And no one is cheated. It's a fair game.'

'I don't criticise her,' Ishraq said. 'But it's an odd occupation for a young woman whose father is hoping to find the secret to make gold from dust, who has studied as you say you have done for decades. In the afternoon you pursue the wisdom of ages and in the morning you play with fools.'

'We did not always live as we do now, we did not always have a patron,' Drago explained. 'We did not always live here. We did not always have this ma.n.u.script, and the other pages the recipe for deep transformation.'

'You gambled for your living before you found your patron?'

'Yes.'

'And you gamble still?'

'By way of explaining our presence here.'

'Did the patron give you the house and the ma.n.u.script together?' Ishraq asked casually. 'And tell you to pa.s.s as street gamblers?'

'He did. Two years ago,' Drago said.

'And what does he expect for his generosity?'

'A share, of course,' Drago said. 'When we have the answer that he seeks. Most alchemists have a patron, how else could we afford the ingredients? How else could we undertake years of study?'

'He must be a generous man, for sure a patient man,' Ishraq said and was surprised to see no answering smile from the alchemist.

He was grave. 'I don't know him at all,' he said quietly. 'He is my patron. He is my lord. He gives me sealed orders often through a third person. I have only met him twice. He is not a friend.'

'You don't like him?' she asked acutely.

His face was closed. 'I don't know him,' he said.

'What's this?' Luca asked suddenly.

He was pointing to a small pen-and-ink drawing at the foot of one page. Ishraq bent close and saw that it was a dragon, tail in its own mouth, the symbol of Luca's own Order. His lord had tattooed the first part of the symbol on Luca's upper arm, as he completed the first part of his apprenticeship. The lord had promised that he would add the rest of the dragon and the detail of its scales until Luca, like Brother Peter, like Milord himself, carried the entire symbol on his own flesh: a different version from this little sketch, but clearly the same symbol.

'That is the sign of ouroboros,' Drago said. 'That is an alchemical sign. It means eternal life, a life that is forever renewed. The dragon feeds on itself, it eats its own tail, it drinks its own blood, it goes on forever. All is in one. One is in all.'

Luca was a little pale. 'I know this sign,' he said. 'It is an emblem for an Order.'

'The Order of the Dragon?' the man confirmed. 'The Order of my patron.'

'The Order that I am thinking of is known as the Order of Darkness,' Luca corrected him.

'Darkness,' the man repeated softly. 'The darkness of the first matter, of Al Khem which gives its name to alchemy, the primary material which changes into one thing, and then another, into two and then three, and finally into the stone, into gold. Everything comes from darkness. This Order is well named if it makes the journey from darkness to gold.'

'They hope to go from ignorance to understanding,' Ishraq murmured.

Luca shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. 'What does this mean?' he asked. 'You speak as if everything is connected with everything else.'

Drago Nacari smiled. 'Without a doubt it is,' he said.

'Luca here knows of an Order which is called the Order of Darkness,' Ishraq said slowly. 'The Order is commanded by his lord. We don't see his face. It exists to discover the end of days, the end of the world, the end of all things, of life on earth. Now you show us its symbol: the dragon eating its own tail, a sign of eternity, of life itself. You speak of the Order of the Dragon, and you too are commanded by a lord who you don't know.'

'Many great men work in secret,' Nacari volunteered. 'In my business, everyone works in secret.' He rose to his feet. 'Shall I leave this page with you for you to study?'

'If you will,' Luca said.

'But show it to no one else,' he said. 'We don't want it to fall into the hands of those who might use it against the world. Since we don't know what it says, it could be something that does not trans.m.u.te to purity and good, but something which goes the other way.'

'The other way?' Ishraq repeated. 'What other way?'

'Into the shadow of darkness, into death, into decay,' he said. 'Into our destruction and the end of man. Into what you call the end of days. The dark is as real as light. The other world is just a fingertip away. Sometimes I can almost see it.'

'Do you see any signs of the end of days?' Luca asked him. 'I have a mission to know. Do you think the world is going to end? The infidel is in Constantinople, his armies have entered Christendom is Christ going to come again and judge us all? Will the world end, and will He harrow h.e.l.l? Have you seen signs of it in your work? In the world which you say is just a fingertip away?'

The man nodded as he turned towards the door. 'I think the time is now,' he said. 'I see it in everything that I do. And every day I have to conquer . . .'

'Conquer what?' Ishraq asked him when he broke off.

'My own fears,' he said simply. He looked at her directly, and she was sure that he was speaking the truth. 'These are dark times,' he said frankly. 'And I fear that I serve a dark master.'

Next morning the little group divided. Ishraq, dressed in the costume of a young man about town, with a dark black cape around her shoulders, her long hair pinned up under a broad black velvet hat, and a black and silver mask on her face, set out with Freize in attendance as her squire, taking a pa.s.sing gondola to the quay near to the Nacari house at the edge of the ghetto. Luca and Brother Peter took the house gondola to the Rialto Bridge, and Isolde, dressed as modestly as a nun, with her face hidden beneath a great winged hood, walked down the alleyways and over the little bridges to the San Giacomo church on the square beside the Rialto Bridge. She took up a position under the portico of the church and watched as Brother Peter and Luca strolled into the square, and went to watch the cups and ball game.

'Have you come to try your luck, my masters?' Jacinta asked, as pleasantly as always. She smiled at Luca. 'My hands are quick today. I think I shall outwit you.'

Luca c.h.i.n.ked silver piccoli in his hand. 'I think I am certain to win,' he said.

She laughed. 'Watch carefully then,' she invited him, and as a small crowd gathered round she put the gleaming marble ball under an upturned cup and moved the cups slowly, and then at dazzling speed, until they came to rest and she sat back, smiled and said: 'Which cup?'

Isolde glanced out of the square, down the maze of streets and waterways so that she should be certain which way she would have to go if she had to run before the Nacaris to warn Ishraq and Freize, and then bowed her head as if saying her prayers. She found she was truly praying for them all. She prayed for her own safety: that her brother's men had gone back to Lucretili and her brother would give up his pursuit. She prayed for Luca's quest to find his parents, and for her own mission to get back to her home. 'Please,' she whispered, 'please let us all be safe and not exposed to danger nor be a danger to others.' She tried to concentrate, but she found her mind strayed. She fixed her gaze on the image of the crucified Christ but all she could think of was Luca, his face, his smile, the way that she could not help but be near him, lean towards him, hope for his touch.

Guiltily, she shook her head and pinched her clasped hands. She closed her eyes and bowed her head again to pray for the safety of Ishraq and Freize as they went, disguised, to the Nacari house.

Ishraq and Freize were far from needing prayers, gleefully excited by their mission as they approached the tall crowded houses just outside the Jewish ghetto. Ishraq loitered behind as Freize went boldly up to the side door which stood on the quayside and hammered on the knocker. There was silence from inside.

'Anybody in?' Freize shouted.

A woman from the far side of the narrow ca.n.a.l threw open her shutters and called down. 'They're at the Rialto, they're there every morning.'

'Can their maid not let me in? Don't they have a page boy?'

'They have no maid. They have no servants. You'll have to go to the Rialto if you want them.'

'I'll go there then and find them,' Freize called back cheerily. 'I'll go now. Thank you for your help.'

'Pipe down,' the woman advised rudely and slammed her shutters.

Freize exchanged one wordless glance with Ishraq and set off, apparently in the direction of the Rialto Bridge. As quiet as a cat, Ishraq tried the handle of the door in the garden wall. She felt it yield, but the door would not open. Clearly, the Nacaris had locked it behind them when they left the house. Ishraq dropped back, took a short run at the garden wall and leaped up, her feet scrabbling to find a purchase on the smooth wall, until she got her knee on a branch of ivy and heaved up to the top of the wall and dropped down on the far side.

She was on her feet in a moment, looking alertly all around the garden in case anyone had heard her. Already she had identified the tree that she would climb if a guard dog came rushing towards her, or a watchman, but there was silence in the sunlit garden, and a bird started to sing. On tiptoe, Ishraq went towards the house and tried the door that led from the garden to the storeroom. It was locked and the shutters were closed on the inside. She turned to her right and tried the shutters on the windows. They too were firmly bolted from the inside. She looked up. Overlooking the garden was a pretty balcony with a spiral stone staircase that led down to the lawn and the peach tree.

Quiet as a ghost, Ishraq slipped up the stairs and found the window to the bedroom had been left latched open. She put her slim hand into the gap beneath the window and flicked the catch. As the window swung open, Ishraq went head first through the opening and landed as quietly as she could in a heap on the floor.

At once she was on her feet, listening, sensing that the house was empty. She tiptoed from the room to the landing, head c.o.c.ked, looking down the well of the stair. Nothing moved, there was no sound. Lightly, she ran down the stairs and unbolted the door just as Freize was walking briskly a man with business to attend to past the house. One swift sideways step and he was inside the house and the door was closed behind him.

They beamed at each other. Ishraq slid the bolts across the door, locking it against the street. 'In case they come back unexpectedly,' she said. 'Come on.'

They went first into the big room at the front of the house that overlooked the ca.n.a.l and found a table piled with rolls of ma.n.u.scripts and some hand-copied bound books. Ishraq looked at them without touching. 'Philosophy,' she said. 'Astronomy, and here alchemy. These are a lot of books. It seems that he was telling the truth when he said he had been studying for decades.'

'They both have,' Freize corrected her. He pointed to a writing table beside the bigger table. There was a brown scarf over the back of the chair, and on the table a page of paper with a carefully copied drawing, and a page of notes. He looked from the book to the paper. 'She's translating something,' he said. 'She's studying too.'

Ishraq came and looked over his shoulder. 'Alchemists often work in pairs, a man and a woman working together for the energy that they bring,' she said. 'Alchemy is about the trans.m.u.tation from one form into another, liquids to solids, base to pure. It needs a man and a woman to make it work, it needs the spirit of a woman as well as that of a man.'

'How d'you know all this?' Freize asked curiously.

Ishraq shrugged. 'When I was studying in Spain, the Arab philosophers often studied alchemy texts,' she said. 'One of the universities even changed from studying the philosophy of Plato to that of Hermes. They said that there was more to learn from alchemy than from the Greeks that gives you an idea of how important the work is, how much there is to understand. But this material is far beyond me.'

Freize picked up a curiously shaped paperweight, a long pyramid of sparklingly clear gla.s.s, and then found a bra.s.s stamp beneath the paper. 'What's this?' Freize asked. 'Their seal?'

Ishraq picked up the little gold stamp and looked at the base. It was an engraved gold picture, for stamping the hot wax of a letter or a parcel to mark the insignia.

'This looks like a royal crest, or a ducal crest. Why would the Nacaris have it to seal their letters?'

'Get a copy of it, we should show it to Luca,' Freize advised. 'I'll look round upstairs,' he said.

She heard him going quietly upstairs and the creak of the door as he put his head into the two bedrooms, then the slight noise as he went upwards to the empty attic bedrooms for the servants. She was so intent on her work of heating the sealing wax at the embers of the fire, and dripping the melted wax onto a spare sheet of paper, that she hardly noticed as he came down the stairs again and went to the back room, the storeroom. She pressed the seal into the wax and saw the clear image. But then she heard him say urgently: 'Ishraq! Come and see.'

Replacing the stick of wax just as it had been, putting the seal back into its velvet-lined case and waving the paper page to dry the cooling wax, she went to the store room at the back of the house and froze as Freize heaved open the heavy door.

The room was no longer the homely store of a small Venice house, it was an alchemist's workplace. The place stank of decay and rotting food, and a subterranean smell of mould and vomit. Ishraq put a hand over her nose and mouth trying to block the stench. Next to the doorway, a great round tank with a wooden lid bubbled and gave off a nauseating stink of death.

'My G.o.d,' Ishraq said, gagging. 'It's unbearable.'

Freize shot one horrified look at her. 'It smells like a midden,' he says. 'Worse than a midden, a plague ground. What are they cooking?'

Under the window, before the locked shutters, was a stone bench. On its flat surface had been carved four small circular depressions, each one filled with charcoal ready for burning, each one ready with a tripod and a pan, or a small cauldron. On the shelves were strange-shaped metal baths, and some expensive gla.s.s containers, with spouts and tubes for pouring and distilling liquids. Standing on the floor in ma.s.sive coils, and towering as tall as Ishraq, was a great gla.s.s distillation tube with its dripping foot oozing a yellow slime into a porcelain bowl. On a big table in the centre of the room there were trays of candle wax, some with flowers or herbs face down into the wax as their essences drained away.

Freize looked around, his square face pale, his eyes darkening with superst.i.tious fear. 'What is this? What in G.o.d's name are they doing here?'

Under an airtight bell jar, which stood in a shallow bath of water, there was a small brown mouse on a platform, sitting up and cleaning its whiskers, beside a burning candle.

'Are they roasting it?' Freize whispered. 'Killing it, the poor little creature?'

Ishraq shook her head, as shaken as her friend. 'I don't know. I've never seen anything like this before.'

The stone hearth beneath the chimney had been raised to waist-height as high as a fire in a forge and great bellows beside the chimney and cracks in the stone fire-back showed that it had been heated beyond bearing. Now it had burned down to red embers, but they could see that in the grey ashes there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of the piccoli silver coins, glowing like a thousand little eyes, pooling as they cooled into strange ominous shapes.

'What are they doing to the money?' Freize demanded.

Ishraq shook her head in bewilderment.

A range of shelves held the dried bodies of small animals: trapped mice, rats bought from the rat catcher and missing their tails, birds with their heads flopped to one side, a desiccated nest with four dried-out nestlings, and jar after jar of dead insects of all sorts. Freize made a face of disgust. 'What do they do with these? Is this for alchemy? Is it magic? Are they killing things here for sport, for devilment?'

Once more, Ishraq shook her head. 'I don't know.' She turned her eyes from the little limp bodies and could not suppress a shiver.

Against one wall was an empty chair, as tall as a throne, draped in purple velvet, with a purple velvet cape and robe beside it. Turned to the wall was a hammered silver mirror.

'What's that for?' whispered Freize. 'Who is that for?'