Certainly tarot has its limitations, but the overall indication of personal danger was obvious. I gave my deck a kiss of thanks, wrapped it again in its silk kerchief, and tucked it back under my pillow. Then I retrieved my rapier and dagger from the top of the wardrobe.

The house was quiet. I locked the front door behind me and trotted downstairs to find old Luigi, the Barbolanos’ toothless night watchman. Luigi would be less help than a broken ankle in any sort of fight and is also a notorious gossip.

“Have you ever,” I asked him, “in your long and distinguished service, known anyone try to force a way into the Ca’ Barbolano?” Although I am a natural optimist, the tarot’s four swordsmen seemed excessive odds, even to me.

A guard dog should have teeth, but when Luigi smiles he shows mostly gums. “Never! Is not our beloved Republic the most peace-loving place in the world?” He had not even noticed that I was armed.

“And we are protected by our noble lords of the night!”

He cackled at my sarcasm. The Signori di Notte are young nobles elected to lead the local constabulary, whose general incompetence makes them little less dangerous than the criminals they are supposed to catch.

“I am expecting a visitor,” I said. “If you want to keep your eye on the back door, I’ll take the watergate.”

We make this same agreement quite often. He always assumes that I am waiting for a lady. Regrettably he is almost always wrong in that, and the visitor is some nervous client with a clandestine appointment to consult the Maestro. Luigi went shuffling off happily to his kennel at the back, where he would no doubt enjoy a few hours’ illicit sleep. The servants’ entrance there leads out to the walled courtyard, which in turn opens into a narrow, winding calle that will take you eventually to the campo, with its church, bell tower, and parish well, but the gate is locked at night. No visitor of consequence ever comes to the landside door anyway.

The watergate is a three-arched loggia, whose floor is barely above the surface of the Rio San Remo at high tide. That night the tide was out, exposing a slippery carpet of weed on the watersteps. I topped up a lantern with enough oil to burn until dawn and hung it in the central arch. Then I went back in and shot all the bolts on the big doors.

Ca’ Barbolano is not the largest of the great family palaces in the city, but it is not the smallest, either. Mostly I kept my lookout from the mezzanine windows above the watergate, but sometimes I stretched my legs with a stroll along the androne, the single long hall that extends from one door to the other. Its high walls bear tribute to centuries of sea trading by Barbolano ancestors-cobwebbed banners and great bronze lanterns from ancient galleys, arrays of cutlasses, crossbows, and scimitars. Storerooms line both sides, but the glow of my lamp flickered on other wares left heaped on the floor: bales, boxes, and barrels, intermixed with oars and cushions from the gondolas outside, brought indoors for safekeeping.

Out on the canal, wind and rain continued their wild dance. At times the downpour was so heavy that I could barely make out the lanterns on passing gondolas. The light outside our door continued to burn brightly and so did the one outside Number 96, next-door, but even 96 was attracting little business in such weather. Once or twice I saw a light moving on the building site directly opposite, but I could not tell if it was carried by a conscientious watchman or the thieves he was supposed to deter. Midnight came and went. The last of 96’s customers departed. Its windows darkened and eventually a servant took down its lantern and carried it away indoors, leaving me the whole world to myself.

Nothing happened for another hour. I had almost come to believe I had misunderstood my instructions when I saw a light approaching. I could not even make out how many men the boat held, but it pulled in at our watersteps. I raced downstairs, my lamp throwing wild shadows on the walls.

Before they banged the knocker and wakened Luigi, I flipped open the peephole. “Who goes there?”

The night growled, “Visitors to see Doctor Nostradamus.” The speaker was standing with his face in shadow. His voice was familiar.

“He is not at home.” Wisdom has departed.

“Open this door, Zeno!”

“I have orders to admit no one. Anyone else you wish to speak with, I shall be happy to fetch. But the Maestro is not at home.”

Then the speaker edged back so the light was on his face. “Open in the name of the Republic!” said Raffaino Sciara.

The night was now much colder. In theory I could have demanded to see his warrant, but if I delayed him any longer, Sciara could set his men to work on the big brass door knocker, and the last thing the Maestro would want would be a clamor to rouse the household and let the Barbolanos learn that he was in trouble with the government.

“At once, lustrissimo!” While I was hauling on the bolts, my mind chased its tail puppy-wise, wondering what could possibly have provoked this invasion. As soon as I had one flap open, I grabbed up my lamp again and backed away. I smiled a toothy welcome at the fanti as they entered-four of them, just as my tarot had warned. Fanti wear no armor, but they carry swords concealed in their cloaks.

It was the man behind them who gave me intestinal cramps. Raffaino Sciara is tall, stooped, and cadaverous, with all the lovesomeness of a serpent. He bears an uncanny resemblance to the image of Death in my tarot deck. His cloak of office is blue, but otherwise put a scythe in his hand and he would be dressed for Carnival as the Grim Reaper. He is Circospetto, chief secretary to the Council of Ten, which plays at the capital crimes table.

I bowed gracefully. “Welcome to Ca’ Barbolano, lustrissimo.”

The death’s-head inspected me with a sneer that would curdle spring water. “Where is your master, boy?”

“He is not here.”

“I can see that, Alfeo.”

“Can I assist you in his absence? Read your palm? Cast your horoscope?”

The Maestro might have accused me of childish babbling to conceal fear and for once I would not have argued. The Venetian Council of Ten runs the finest international spy network in Europe, but it also knows everything about everyone within the Republic itself. Its members come and go, but its secretaries remain forever, and Sciara must have more secrets fluttering around inside his memory than San Marco has pigeons. Whatever personal hopes or motives he may have are hidden behind a mask of absolute loyalty to the state. I suspect he has been dehumanized by all the uncountable death sentences and forced confessions he must have recorded.

“He never leaves this house.”

“Not never, sir. Just rarely. His legs-”

“Did he go by boat or by land, Alfeo?”

“I honestly do not know.” Innocence glowed in my countenance, I hoped. “I deeply regret that you should have wasted a journey on such a horrid evening-”

“Where is he?”

“ Lustrissimo, I have no idea.” I love telling the truth, because it needs so little effort. “Did you hope to catch the world’s greatest clairvoyant unawares? He foresaw visitors looking for him tonight and instructed me to make sure that nothing was stolen in his absence.”

“Ha!” Sciara’s breath was as sour as his face. “You have two choices, Zeno. You can take me at once to your master, or you can come with me.”

I would be astonished if the Ten ever issued a warrant to search a nobleman’s house, and if they did it would not be served by Circospetto, but by Messier Grande, the chief of police. On the other hand, Sciara and his four henchmen could certainly take me in for questioning, and questioning can be the least pleasant of experiences.

“I swear I do not know where he is, lustrissimo.”

Circospetto showed his teeth in a death’s-head smile. “Show me.” He nodded to the fante with the fanciest silver badge on his belt. “Guard the door and try not to steal anything.”