“ Sier Alfeo Zeno, sire.” We had reached our destination. I walked around the equerry into a dressing room where the doge was having his hair cut by a valet. I doffed my bonnet and bowed low. We Republicans do not kneel to our head of state.

“Thank you, Aldo.”

The door closed.

Our most serene prince, Pietro Moro, is large and grizzled; he has a rheumatic back, is of the sanguine temperament as defined by the immortal Galen, and at that time was in his late seventies. It is rare for a man much younger than that to be elected doge-Venetians favor rapid turnover in the supreme office of the state. At the far end of the room stood a row of mannequins draped in different versions of the state robes, one of which was being vigorously brushed by a second valet. The doge goes garbed in white and ermine and cloth of gold; he wears a brocade cap called the corno because it rises at the back in a horn. This protuberance bears a marked resemblance to an oversized nose, so it is regrettable that the present incumbent has been known all his life as Nasone, Big Nose.

Keeping his head still for the scissors, he squinted at me out of one eye. “You seem to be in trouble again, lad.”

“I suspected so, Your Serenity. I don’t know why.”

“An old friend of mine died yesterday.”

I could not see where that led. “I offer my humble condolences. I heard the bell tolling yesterday and was informed that a procurator had entered into grace.” Danielle the apothecary had told me.

There are nine procurators of San Marco. They are state trustees, managing endowments, caring for widows and orphans, supervising trusts. The office is unpaid, but brings such honor and precedence that the procurators are recognized as the “grand old men” of the Republic, the only officials other than the doge who are elected for life and are permanent members of the Senate. When a doge dies, the electoral college will almost always choose one of the nine to succeed him. I had no idea why the death of one of them should imperil me.

“Bertucci Orseolo.”

“I do recall the name, sire.” He was not one of the Maestro’s patients, but he had been a client. I could recall transcribing his horoscope a couple of years ago. I could also recall the trouble I had had extracting payment for it.

Silence, except for the faint snip of scissors. Was it still my turn?

“I have never heard a bad word said about him.” Apart from some I had uttered myself, that was.

“I have!” The doge chuckled. “Many. But he was a great fighter in his youth. And a fine servant of the state, a credit to one of the oldest families in the Republic. Older than yours, even.”

I was never sure whether Pietro Moro was shocked or amused that his doctor’s assistant was listed in the Golden Book.

“I am proud of my descent from the forty-fifth doge, Your Serenity, but my branch blew off the family tree a long time ago.” I stand fourteen generations from Doge Renier Zeno. Although I do have rich relations, they were never close and they all became much more distant after the Turks stole Cyprus away from the Republic and ruined my grandparents.

The doge said, “Hmm!” which needed no reply.

Wealth is not the same as nobility. Most European aristocrats are descended from warrior barons, but the ancestors of our Venetian nobility were all merchant princes-sailors and traders, not fighters. Three hundred years ago the ruling families closed the Golden Book to newcomers, and since then many distinguished families have fallen into poverty, just as some outsider families have grown immensely rich. And yet, as long as a man is of legitimate birth and does not descend to manual labor, he can retain his designation of nobile homo and write NH before his name. The poor nobility are known as barnabotti, after the parish of San Barnaba, where most of them live, and they are numerous. In theory, when I reach the age of twenty-five, I will be eligible to take my seat in the Great Council and begin a career in politics, but a man without fortune or family cannot hope to be elected to office without endless kowtowing to his betters. The prospect held no appeal. One cranky master was better than twelve hundred of them.

The doge said, “I am almost out of the unguent.” His back pains him, especially in damp weather.

“I have a note on my calendar to mix more and deliver it to Your Serenity next week. Should I do so sooner?”

“No. You will have more important things to do. Your master has a copy of Apologeticus Archeteles, does he not?”

“Er…” We were not alone. Either or both of the valets could be a spy for the Three or the Church. Pietro Moro shares the Maestro’s passion for old books, but no one except high church officials may read books by the notorious Protestant heretic Ulrich Zwingli. Was the old man trying to trap me? Or test me? If he was just playing games, juggling sabers would be safer. Yet only the wiliest politicians ever get to wear the corno. Gruff and overstuffed though he was, Doge Moro was as wily as they come, and he must have some reason for his dangerous question.

Such problems are too complicated to analyze on an empty stomach.

“I do not recall any book by that name, sire. I will look when I get home.” If I get home. “He is always happy and honored to lend Your Serenity works from his collection.”

The valet was reaching under the massive ducal nose to trim minute amounts of hair from the ducal mustache, ending the conversation for a few moments. I was happy to wait. Attending the head of state’s levee was more pleasant than rotting in his jail.

When the scissors had been put away and a comb run through the doge’s beard, he could turn to frown at me. He raised a leg so a kneeling valet could drag a stocking over his varicosis. “Procurator Orseolo took ill suddenly at a private party on Valentine’s Eve.”

Sweet Lady defend me! Orseolo! My memory reported for duty at last.

“And about, er, two years ago I think, the Maestro cast His Excellency’s horoscope…” I write out all his horoscopes in fair. I cast many of them, too, although the Maestro would do that himself for a procurator. “As I recall the problem, there was a conjunction of Venus and Saturn in Aquarius, his birth sign. The Maestro’s exact words were that His Excellency should ‘beware the coming of the lover,’ sire.”

His Serenity snorted. “You are wasted on that old fraud. You ought to be serving the Republic. There are ways to get a man of your age into the Great Council, you know.”

“Your Serenity honors me greatly.” I could also apply for a posting as a gentleman archer on a galley, which would certainly be more pleasant and likely safer than the free-for-all political games of the Venetian aristocracy.

“Bertucci died yesterday.” The doge pushed a massive arm into the shirt a valet was offering.

Saint Valentine’s day. “My master will be chagrined to learn that his warning was not heeded.” I knew he would also be delighted to have his prophecy meet with such a spectacular and public fulfillment, although of course he would not say so, even to me.

“Oh, he knows! He was one of the guests in the Ca’ Imer.”

“A guest, sire?” Mere physicians are not invited to the nobility’s frolics, not even physicians with international reputations. If they were, everyone would still exclude the Maestro, who has the social skills of a porpentine and either insults people or bores them to death.

The doge raised his chin so the valet could fasten his shirt buttons. “He was present, at least. You did not know?”

“No, sire.” I had gone to my weekly fencing lesson and then squired a certain young lady to Carnival on the Lido. The Maestro had not told me that he had been out also, because he hates sharing personal information with anyone. He trusts me, it’s just the principle of the thing. Bruno had not told me because Bruno does not talk.