Murder at Midnight

  “My lord,” said DeLaBina, “I won’t guess where that particular person might be at this moment. For all I know he could be in this room.” He stared at Scarazoni. “At this point I only know the individual who actually made these papers.”

  “Who … who might that be?” stammered the alarmed king.

  “My lord, it is” — DeLaBina paused for effect — “it is Mangus the Magician!”

  Fabrizio groaned inwardly.

  The king looked bewildered. “Who?” he demanded.

  “He is speaking,” said Count Scarazoni, “of a magician who resides in your city.”

  “A magician?” said the king, staring at the count with horror. “Here? In my Pergamontio?”

  “He lives on the Street of the Olive Merchants,” said Scarazoni.

  How does he know that? Fabrizio wondered.

  “But … but magicians are terribly dangerous,” said the king. “If you knew of this magician, Count, why did you not inform me?”

  “Yes, Count,” said the prince, “you seem to know all about this magician.”

  “Do you know about him?” the king demanded of Scarazoni.

  “Let us hear what DeLaBina says first,” said the count.

  The next moment DeLaBina turned and forced Fabrizio into a kneeling position. “My lords, before you is the wretched servant boy of this Mangus the Magician. He goes by the name of …”

  Before he completed the sentence, Count Scarazoni said, “Fabrizio.”

  Once again Fabrizio was startled. How could the count know his name?

  DeLaBina, equally surprised, recovered quickly. “Apparently, Count, you have considerable knowledge of this magician. I suppose you will not be surprised to know that when I apprehended this boy, I discovered these on him.” The magistrato reached into his blue robe and pulled out the papers Fabrizio had collected.

  “Your Majesty,” continued DeLaBina, “this boy admitted to me that Mangus was practicing magic. The papers I found on him are the same as you held in your hand. One of my informants told me this boy was distributing the papers throughout the city. I caught him in the act.”

  “Not true, Your Majesty,” Fabrizio whispered.

  No one even heard him.

  “One can hardly imagine,” said DeLaBina, “such a stupid, lowborn fellow doing such a thing if he was not following somebody’s orders.”

  “Who told the magician to make the papers?” asked the prince.

  “I am afraid,” said DeLaBina, looking at the count, “there is as yet an unknown accomplice.”

  The king sat up. “If this magician is making these papers, then surely he can tell us who the traitor is. Arrest him. Force him to reveal who asked him to make the papers.” He paused and looked at Fabrizio. “Is this boy a … magician, too?”

  “Of course not,” said Scarazoni.

  “Good! Then bring him forward. I’ll question him right now.”

  DeLaBina pushed Fabrizio forward with such force that the boy fell to his knees. When he looked up, the king was staring at him with nervous fascination.

  “Boy!” cried the king. “Does your master practice magic?”

  “Majesty … with permission,” Fabrizio stammered, “I humbly, respectfully, and truthfully beg to inform you that my master had nothing to —”

  “Does he commune with ghosts?” demanded the king.

  “Is he a sorcerer?” asked Prince Cosimo.

  “No … please,” said Fabrizio. “He … had nothing to do with —”

  “Then tell me who asked him to make the papers.”

  “Your Majesty …”

  “Tell me!” cried the king.

  Fabrizio was aware everyone was looking at him. Desperate, he searched for a friendly face. He gazed at Prince Cosimo, pleading silently with imploring eyes for help. “I … I … believe it is —”

  Prince Cosimo turned pale. “Father, don’t waste your time with this wretch. Since the magician is guilty, take this worthless servant to the lowest dungeon of the Hall of Justice — to the executioner. Have the boy executed within twenty-four hours as an example to all who would threaten us.”

  “Yes,” cried the king. “Lead him away. DeLaBina! Arrest the magician!”

  Before a shocked Fabrizio fully grasped what was happening, he was seized by two soldiers and dragged off.

  CHAPTER 9

  TWO COURT SOLDIERS, THEIR SMOKY TORCHES SPATTERING shadows on the walls, marched Fabrizio down steep stone steps. They went around twisty bends, along clammy, spiderwebbed hallways, through narrow, moss-clotted passageways. Every turn confused him. Every step lower terrified him. As far as Fabrizio could tell, he was being taken to the very bottom of the Hall of Justice.

  At last they reached the end of a narrow corridor where a bulky wooden door — strapped and studded with black bolts — blocked the way. One of the soldiers used his sword butt to bang on it.

  The door swung open. A huge, filth-slathered, pale-skinned man with knobby legs and long-muscled arms peered out. He wore a stained leather smock that reached scabby knees. His feet were bare, with hammertoes that curled upon themselves like claws. To Fabrizio the man looked like a gigantic maggot.

  “There you are, Agrippa,” said one of the soldiers. “You do take your time.”

  “Forgive me,” said the executioner in a voice that surprised Fabrizio with its mildness. “I get weary sitting here, waiting. Makes a man slow.” He blinked. “Have you brought me business?”

  “We have.”

  “Let’s have a look.” The executioner reached out a heavy hand and shoved one of the soldiers aside. His gray eyes blinked at Fabrizio. Staring up with revulsion, the boy started back.

  “Why, he’s just a minnow,” said Agrippa.

  “What do you care?” said a soldier. “Do what you’re told: Execute him.”

  “Who ordered his death?” asked Agrippa.

  “Prince Cosimo.”

  “That’s unusual. Mostly it’s Scarazoni who sends folk here. What’s this tadpole done?”

  “Does it matter?” said one of the soldiers.

  The executioner shrugged his great shoulders. “I suppose not. What’s his sentence?”

  “To be executed at the end of twenty-four hours.”

  “Twenty-four hours! The usual practice is for prisoners to suffer a week before they are executed. This one must have done something terrible.”

  “Why should you care?”

  “Fine,” said Agrippa. “I can save a pezolla by not feeding him. Not that such a minnow would eat much.” He reached out, but Fabrizio jerked back, trying to break away from the soldiers. They were too quick, and held him. The executioner grabbed the boy by a shoulder and yanked him forward. Fabrizio stumbled into the cell, all but tripping over a corpse that lay upon the ground.

  “And take this one out,” said Agrippa, indicating the body.

  “Is he dead?” asked a soldier.

  “I hope so. I broke his neck three days ago.”

  Sick to his stomach, Fabrizio pressed himself against the far wall.

  The soldiers crowded into the small room, grabbed the dead man’s legs, and dragged him out, slamming the door behind them.

  Fabrizio looked about. The small space was illuminated by a few glowing coals in a rusty iron bucket. Along with the feeble light, the coals oozed caustic smoke that lay like ribbons in the reeking air. The room’s walls, low ceiling, and floor were made of crudely cut stone. Wisps of rotten, clotted hay lay scattered. The only bright thing in the room was a large hourglass hanging motionless from a chain affixed to the ceiling. Its bulky bottom bulb was filled with white sand.

  All that Fabrizio could think was that just a short time ago he had been snug and safe in Master’s house. Now he was in this bleak and desolate place. And there he would remain for twenty-four hours, after which he would be put to a cruel death for no reason at all.

  The executioner sat cross-legged on the floor, blocking the door. Arms folded over his massive chest,
he continued to examine Fabrizio with curiosity.

  Fabrizio, struggling to breathe, said, “Please, Signore. My name is —” only to have Agrippa press one of his large, filthy hands over his mouth.

  “I don’t want to know your name,” the man announced. “Hard enough to execute someone. Knowing names makes it harder.” He removed his hand.

  The moment he did, Fabrizio cried, “My name is Fabrizio!”

  The executioner sighed. “Gory. That always happens. Soon as I tell people not to reveal their names, they do. Executioners have feelings, too, you know. Not that anybody cares about making things more difficult for me.”

  “For you?” said Fabrizio. “What about me?”

  Agrippa shrugged. “Your life will be short. Mine longer. Look at it that way, and you’ll see it’s more of a problem for me than for you. All the same, I’m pleased to meet you, Signor Fabrizio. I sincerely regret our acquaintance will be brief.”

  “I confess,” said Fabrizio, “I’m not pleased to meet you.”

  He looked around only to notice, with surprise, that the door behind the executioner had been left ajar. His eyes widened.

  “You’re an alert one,” said Agrippa. “Yes, the door is open. I always keep it that way. Gives my prisoners some hope. Hope, I think, is a good thing.”

  “Hope is a good way to start your dinner but a bad way to finish it,” Fabrizio shot back.

  “Ah, a clever lad!” Agrippa’s grin revealed stumps of yellowing teeth. “But I’m strong. So you won’t escape. I mean, you don’t want to spend the rest of your life — short though it may be — in pain, do you?”

  Fabrizio leaned back against the wall, shut his eyes, and took a deep breath. “An old man once told me that when there’s nowhere to go, it’s best to stay where you are.”

  “Don’t complain,” said Agrippa. “I’ll be here much longer than you.”

  “Don’t you like your job?” said Fabrizio.

  “When I was your age, I wanted to be a stonemason. Something respectable and everlasting about building homes and walls. Outdoors, too. The good God willed it otherwise, didn’t he? Still, I should be grateful for work that keeps me alive.”

  “Except you stay alive by making others die.” Fabrizio pointed to the hourglass. “What’s that for?”

  “Kind of you to remind me. The sand measures your remaining time.” Agrippa lumbered up and flipped the hourglass over.

  “You heard the soldier,” he said, resuming his place by the door. “After twenty-four hours you die.”

  Fabrizio watched the sand trickle down. He turned away.

  “Some of my guests,” said Agrippa, “want to end things quickly. The guilty ones, mostly. Not the innocent. Odd how optimism and innocence cling together. A depressing connection, if you ask me.”

  “Do you kill the innocent, too?” asked Fabrizio.

  “I’m not a judge, am I?” said Agrippa.

  “But if you were, you’d find me innocent. All I wanted to do was help my master. He needs help. If you wished, I’d be happy to beg for mercy.”

  “Sorry. I’m not a pardoner, either. Just an executioner.”

  Fabrizio was silent for a while. “How … how do you … execute people?”

  Agrippa held up his large, dirty hands. “I break their necks.”

  Fabrizio, unable to keep from touching his own neck, watched the thread of sand trickle down. He felt it hard to breathe.

  “Unless of course the king decides to send a messenger. A reprieve.”

  “Does that happen?” asked Fabrizio, eagerly.

  “Not once,” Agrippa replied. “Still, they say the more a thing hasn’t happened, the greater the chances are that it might. But I’ll be honest: Your death will more likely take place sooner.”

  “Sooner!” cried Fabrizio.

  “Now that happens a lot. Count Scarazoni gets impatient. But, don’t worry. You’ll be forewarned. A messenger comes and knocks on this door — loudly. If you hear it — and you’re not likely to miss it — pray for your soul. The end is soon.”

  “Considering what you do, you seem cheerful enough.”

  “When I first got this job, I said to myself, ‘Agrippa, no reason to make things worse for your guests, is there?’ A light touch eases the way.”

  Fabrizio, his teeth chattering, drew up his knees to gather some measure of warmth.

  “Look here,” said Agrippa, reaching out and rapping Fabrizio on the foot. “I don’t have much of a social life. Just when I get to know a fellow, I have to kill him. I’d love a chat. It passes the time. Or would you prefer silence?”

  “I’d like the sand to stop.”

  “No one can stop time. Just tell me, Signor Fabrizio, since I’m your sole remaining friend — what was your crime?”

  “I did nothing!” Fabrizio shouted.

  “No need to yell. I just want you to know I feel it’s my obligation to believe anything my guests say. Makes them feel better.”

  “But I am innocent!” Fabrizio covered his face with his hands to keep from seeing the hourglass.

  “Then why did Prince Cosimo condemn you to death?”

  “I don’t know,” wailed Fabrizio. “Maybe he’s protecting his father.”

  “I’m protecting my master! But now they’re going to arrest him. It’s all my fault.”

  “Now, now, no need for tears,” said Agrippa. “Just tell me your story. It usually makes the condemned feel better. I love stories. Never get enough of ‘em. Another service I provide. Now go on, let’s hear it right from the beginning.”

  Fabrizio told the details of his life, concluding by saying, “DeLaBina told the king it was my master who made the papers — magically. But I’m beginning to think DeLaBina doesn’t care about the papers. There’s something else. Only I don’t know what it is.”

  “Wasn’t it the prince, not DeLaBina, who sent you here?” asked Agrippa.

  “That’s true,” admitted Fabrizio. “I didn’t even say anything to him. I was just looking at him, hoping he would help me.”

  “Maybe he wanted to get you out of that room.”

  “He could have asked me to go,” said Fabrizio. “I’d have been happy to leave.”

  “Ah! But the dead can’t proclaim their innocence, can they?”

  “Does that mean you won’t kill me?” asked Fabrizio.

  The executioner shook his head. “God made men. Men make laws. Isn’t that what life is all about?”

  “Or death,” Fabrizio felt obliged to say. “But you don’t seem to understand: If something happens to me, things will go badly for my master. I’m supposed to protect him, and he’s about to be arrested.”

  “The magician?”

  Fabrizio nodded, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

  Agrippa leaned forward and tapped the boy on his leg. “Tell me, by any chance, did that master of yours teach you some magic?”

  “I was just learning,” said Fabrizio.

  “It’s a start.”

  Suddenly, Fabrizio said, “I really shouldn’t — my master would not be pleased — but I could show you some magic … for an extra hour of life.”

  “I could do that,” said Agrippa.

  Remembering what Mangus had done at his performance, Fabrizio rolled back the sleeves of his tunic to show nothing was hidden. He showed the backs of his hands. He extended his right hand to show it empty, too. With a quick wave of his left hand, he made it appear as if a few coins dropped out of Agrippa’s nose.

  “Bravo!” said the executioner with grinning delight. “Milking people’s noses for coins. A lovely way to become rich! Show me some more.”

  “Another hour?” asked Fabrizio.

  “Agreed.”

  Fabrizio, recalling the images in Mangus’s magic book, showed an empty hand, before making some coins appear and disappear.

  “Wonderful!” said Agrippa. “If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d say you had a great future. Why don’t you teach me? An excellent way for me to ente
rtain my guests.”

  “If I did, would you let me escape?”

  “Can’t.”

  “What about four more hours?” countered Fabrizio. “That would give you” — Agrippa counted on his big fingers — “an extra six hours to live. Just realize that in the end, it all comes to the same thing.”

  “Fine.” Fabrizio was just about to turn one coin into another when a loud knocking burst upon the door.

  “Boy!” cried the executioner. “Prepare yourself for death!” As he opened the door, Fabrizio fell to his knees and began to murmur frantic prayers.

  CHAPTER 10

  STANDING ON THE THRESHOLD WAS A COURTIER WHOSE bright clothing appeared like a bonfire in the dungeon’s foul gloom. One hand bore a lit lamp; the other hand held up a scroll.

  “Signor Executioner, I bring a message from my lord.”

  Agrippa sighed. “I suppose I’m to break this clever boy’s neck right away.”

  Fabrizio clapped his hands to his ears.

  The courtier held out the paper. “Signore! It’s not for me, a mere courtier, to read my lord’s words. This message is solely for you.” He handed the scroll to Agrippa, saluted, turned on his heels, and marched into the darkness.

  Fabrizio, heart beating to burst, remained crouched in a corner and watched Agrippa through tear-blurred eyes.

  With clumsy care, the executioner unrolled the scroll and gazed at what was written.

  Fabrizio fell to his knees. “If you spare me!” he croaked. “I’ll teach you all the magic I know!”

  The executioner continued to stare at the scroll. “To tell the truth,” he said, looking up. “I’m uncertain what to do. I don’t know how to read.”

  “Signore,” said Fabrizio with a surge of hope, “begging your pardon, but with permission, I read … a little.”

  Agrippa brightened. “Do you? What a clever lad! Reading has always seemed like magic to me. And you’re a magician’s servant. By all means, be so kind as to tell me what’s written here.” He held out the scroll.

  Fabrizio reached for it.

  Agrippa pulled it back abruptly. “One moment, Signore! I’ve no doubt this paper commands me to kill you instantly. But I need to be sure. I want your sacred promise that you’ll tell me exactly what’s written here.”