I scribbled a note to him, telling him to bring the foils and masks over, and his sword as well, just in case. That would be enough to fetch him. Having sealed the note with a scrap of wax I keep in my bedroom, I sent it off to Ca' Trau in the hot and grubby hand of thirteen-year-old Archangelo Angeli, much to his delight and the vexation of the twins, who would undoubtedly lie in wait to mug him for his reward when he returned. Only then did I stalk into the kitchen to see what Mama might have lying around uneaten.

An hour after I had left the Maestro, I peeked into the atelier. He was still staring into the crystal, which made strange lights dance on his face; his hand was moving jerkily, as if the chalk were directing it instead of the other way around. Normally he writes with his left hand, but in trances he uses his right and never remembers afterward what he has seen or has written. I went to fetch a bottle of wine and a glass. Tiptoing, I put them by the red chair and then departed as quietly as I could, although he was totally engrossed in what he was doing.

Fulgentio arrived a few minutes after that, burdened with two foils and his sword, followed by a grinning Archangelo carrying two fencing masks. Fulgentio and I practice together quite often, although only rarely at Ca' Barbolano. The Angeli pack gathered around excitedly and muttered in angry disappointment when I ushered him into my room and closed the door.

"Why my sword?" he demanded. "You feeling suicidal?"

"Three courtesans have been murdered in the last three weeks. Haven't you heard?"

He stared at me narrowly. He has backed me up a few times and knows what it is like to play for the top stakes. "It's the talk of the town. There's muttering about a fourth, but that's not confirmed. Nothing's confirmed." He grinned. "Blank looks all round. And don't waste your breath asking me if the Ten are looking into it. I'd assume so, but even Missier Grande may not know for sure."

"I know for sure." I savored his startled expression for a moment before explaining about the vizio's message. "It sounds to me as if the Ten know who did it and are protecting him."

Fulgentio drew his sword and tossed it on the bed. "If you're planning to defy the Ten, my friend, you'll do it alone. They say the galleys are quite fun in summer, but when it snows-"

"The Maestro is trying to foresee the next murder."

That startled him. "And stop it? Tell you how to stop it? Can you stop a foreseeing?"

"Not if that would create a paradox. But if we were there to see it happen, we could make sure there would be no more. And if the Maestro foresees an attempted murder, then we could fulfill that prophecy." My turn to grin. "Don't get too excited. We have no special reason to think that tonight's the night. Let me go and see what the old devil has produced this time."

Another glance into the atelier revealed the Maestro slumped over the crystal, exhausted. Clairvoyance always smites him with a fearful headache. Between us, Fulgentio and I helped him to the chair by the fireplace. I poured him a glass of wine and he took it in shaky hands.

"What'd I see?" he demanded as he usually does.

"Haven't looked yet," I said.

I went to the slate table, where Fulgentio was already staring at the quatrain.

"This is meant to be writing?" he whispered.

"This one happens to be surprisingly legible and coherent," I said, "which is usually a sign that it deals with something imminent. Wait a moment."

In a minute or so I had it deciphered:

After what once was holy and is not now

Three saints cannot foreclose blind vengeance.

Where the holy in firelight is unholy in shadow

The man of blood sees blood upon the grass again.

"And what does all that mean?"

"Another murder, I think."

"Man of blood?"

"Honeycat, likely. But Honeycat is a strangler, so there's other violence involved." With luck it would be my rapier disabling the monster so that Missier Grande could come and cart him away to justice.

"Three saints?"

"That's a puzzler. Go ask Giorgio. He knows every brick and door in Venice."

Fulgentio strode out. The Maestro mumbled something.

I went across and crouched, "What?"

"Tomorrow. 'When' is tomorrow."

"So it is! But where is 'where'?" No answer. "You want me to call Bruno?"

He grunted agreement, so I went and fetched our porter, who carried the old man to his room. Between us we put him to bed. This was the worst rheumatic attack I had known Nostradamus to suffer, and it raised the horrible prospect that he might soon be unable to walk at all.

By that time Fulgentio was giving Corrado a fencing lesson at the far end of the salone, to an accompaniment of massed jeering from the boy's assembled siblings. Mama was watching with eyebrows at half-mast, because the sword is the weapon of either the gentleman or the gutter bravo, and she does not want any of her sons to have anything to do with it. I edged around to Giorgio.

"Three saints?"

"It's a tough one." He scowled like a man caught out in his professional expertise. "Two saints are common enough. Or a gang of them hanging around on the outside of a church, fine. But exactly three-the church of San Trovaso is on the Rio San Gervaso e San Protasso. That's the best I can think of."

"Possible. Keep thinking." I couldn't recall any grass around San Trovaso.

I went back to the fencing lesson.

"Let me revenge your shame," I told Corrado, and took foil and mask from him. Then I went to guard against Fulgentio and got thoroughly whipped, suffering four hits in a row. My mind was on more serious things, you understand, and fortunately it came up with an answer in time to justify my inattention. I threw down my foil and tugged the mask off.

"The Piazza itself!" I told him. "The two columns on the Piazzetta? The saints on top are San Teodoro and San Marco, right? And the church of San Geminiano at the far end of the Piazza, facing the Basilica! That makes three."

Fulgentio was still protesting about grass as I dragged him and Giorgio downstairs. I had wrapped myself in my winter cloak and, needless to say, we wore our swords and daggers. We took an armful of torches, for the moon had already set behind the rooftops.

Venice is built like an ants' nest of narrow, twisting alleys and canals because of the wind-corners and turns slow down the gusts. But when we emerged onto the choppy Grand Canal, we took the full brunt of the storm, and rain had begun. Huddled in the felze with Fulgentio, I explained my reading of the quatrain.

"It's really two statements. The first line tells you when, and that's after a day that was once holy and now isn't, at least not to us. Tomorrow is Saturday, which is the Jewish Sabbath. Our Christian holy day is Sunday, so we no longer keep Saturday as holy. Got that?"

"This's still Friday."

"I know. The Jews start their days at sunset, so their Sabbath has begun."

"And we look for a friar, who is holy in firelight but murders in shadow?"

"You're coming along nicely, lad. Yes. The second line tells us that three saints are watching where the man of blood will strike. May they help us!"

"Amen!" Fulgentio said. "But what's 'blind vengeance'? Does that mean that we kill the wrong man?"

I had no answer to that. "Let's start by finding three saints and grass."

Giorgio rowed us across the Grand Canal and into lesser but more sheltered ways. We disembarked behind the Old Procuratie, and I told him to go home and help Mama pigeonhole the children. Fulgentio and I walked through the arch to the north side of the Piazza. The smaller Piazzetta, abutting the Grand Canal, is normally closed in the evening for the nobles' broglio, but that night it was deserted. The great square itself was as bare, and the only lights came from torches. No one would dare light a bonfire on such a night, lest it burn down the Doges' Palace. Hawkers, pedlars, musicians had vanished and merrymakers were in short supply.