He had dried to scrape himself clean using the filthy, rotting straw that covered the floor of his cell, but by the time he had been flung into here by the guards it was already too late to remove anything but the odd streak of what had effectively become an indelible stain.
Were they determined that he would go to his death looking like this?
Probably.
As far as the authorities were concerned, this sheen of blood unmistakeably pointed to his guilt, after all.
And he had no alibi. Nothing to place him in the theatre, where he had actually been all night.
That was the disadvantage of the excellence of Seneore’s masks: he had gone as Delfaris, the old stagehand. Many people had seen him there, that night.
But no one had seen Forisimo, even though most people working in the theatre knew him well enough to recognise him even from a distance.
Cauda knew that he had been with her, of course.
But that was only for a few moments. And everyone would swear that she was lying, that the only person she had been alone with had been Delfaris.
There was no point in trying to get word to her. He could only hope that she never learned of his fate.
If she ever saw him in this dishevelled, blood covered state, even she would believe he was guilty of murder.
*
Chapter 13
This was the part Master Caputo really enjoyed: mingling the ingredients, experimenting with different mixes and quantities, using his experience to predict what the result might be.
It was all based on feeling – a sense that this fitted with that to create a third and more wonderful thing. He saw the elements he dealt with not as precipitates, as chemicals, but – bizarre as it would seem to someone unaccustomed to working in this way – but as shapes, as patterns that had to be fulfilled.
This, he believed, was the true secret to creativity of every kind: you quite naturally saw the components you played with as abstract forms that automatically revealed whether they belonged together in a whole new composition or not.
Yes, it was as simple as that, provided you had the innate skills, the apparently unnatural vision to see and understand the things around you in a completely different way.
And so he happily brought together and connected his shapes, let the patterns take their own forms, sensing that his role was to simply discover what should have long been obvious; and therefore, of course, he was actually merely reconnecting these elements, for they had quite obviously always been intended to be married one to the other in this way.
Once you had married two then, like the growing of a family, its product could be married to another, and so on.
Was there no end to the way that so many things could be brought close and – what a delightful surprise! – they lock, a perfect fit: and yet no one had noticed it before!
Colours, taste, viscosity, effects; these were all part of each element’s shape.
And that shape could be slightly altered of course, with the administering of other shapes, other solutions or solids. Then there was heat, and cold, making those shapes more malleable, more open to mingling, or bringing out previously unrecognised similarities.
There was crushing, powdering, as well as distilling, or bringing about a glorious crystallisation; but once again, it was all a matter of dealing in shapes, forcing them into another form that unveiled their suitability to enter into a wedding, the male conjoining with the female just so.
The world was such an incredibly wonderful place, full of the most remarkable and yet mainly still unrevealed coincidences, every one capable of bringing about the most unexpected transformations.
His potions had rid that world of what some regarded as unnecessary obstacles to their progress through life: again, it was a changing of shapes, of patterns, if one only had the vision to see it that way.
He was simply acting as the catalyst to what must ultimately be.
Naturally, he realised that some of those obstacles he had helped remove might have lived far more blameless lives than his clients.
But of what use had such fine, upstanding people been to him when he had first turned up in this city, impoverished and willing to do anything to earn enough to keep himself alive? And hadn’t he found he’d had no choice but to rid himself of the obstacles barring his own way to a roof over his head, to his first workshop, his grand home?
Indeed, hadn’t it been that very first removal, using a simple potion of berries and wine, that had awoken him to his calling? And who now missed or even lamented the passing of an old woman who stole from those renting her rooms – and then only so she could demand merciless rates of interest on the loans you had to take out to pay her off?
Yes, the world’s a better place without people like her.
And what of poor Purnito: is the world a better place without him?
Probably not. He was well known in the lane, being more or less an attribute of the establishment Forisimo had purchased. He had served the previous occupier – a manufacturer of garments that were not only claimed to protect you against the unexpected assault of brigands, but also included hidden blades – admirably well.
Fortunately, Purnito’s death wasn’t a removal that Caputo had been involved in, unless you counted the fact that he had witnessed the arrival home of Forisimo just before he was caught in the act of murdering his own servant. He had also seen the blood spattered walls as he moved to close the door left open by the swiftly retreating guards, a scene so horrifying he had dropped the mask he had still been carrying, leaving it staring up in the darkened corridor like some mangled wraith.
The lane protected its own, but loyalties were naturally stretched when the victim was also an occupant: moreover, Purnito had lived here far longer than Forisimo, steadfastly serving his master and the lane’s other associates with complete devotion.
Forisimo, on the other hand, quite obviously didn’t possess the correct temperament to have ever become an elder of the lane. Naturally, when Caputo had seen the blood covered Forisimo being led away by what appeared to be officers of the city authorities, and then only moments later seen another group of guards carrying away the even more bloodied corpse of Purnito, he had considered how convenient all this was for Impresario Guilfo: his rival for love had been effectively removed, and without there being any danger of Cauda suspecting Guilfo’s involvement.
Which, of course, had made Caputo all the more suspicious that Guilfo had been involved in some way in Forisimo’s demise.
It was all too convenient.
All too much of a pattern.
And yet: Forisimo had been drenched in Purnito’s blood.
He had, the guards claimed, actually been caught in the act of plunging the knife into his servant, the consequence of an increasingly irate argument regarding a serious lapse in Purnito’s appointed duties.
Hadn’t Caputo himself been witness to Purnito’s failure to follow his master’s instructions? For, quite obviously, it was Purnito whom Forisimo had been expecting to meet at the canal side after exiting the theatre.
Forisimo would have been angry with his servant for leaving him in such a dangerous situation.
No matter; the fate of this Forisimo was not Caputo’s problem.
Besides, his execution was now a foregone conclusion.
The only problem that left Caputo was that Guilfo would no longer require the poison he had ordered.
So why was he working on creating this marvellous potion anyway?
Because he had become intrigued by its possibilities.
Mr Gillars, it must be admitted, sold far more love potions than he sold poisons.
Yet how much more attractive to the purchasers of these love potions would be one that surgically cut out the wound of the rival lover – as opposed to effectively placing someone in such a dazed stupor that they began to think they loved you?
Those dependent upon Mr Gillars’ potions lived in constant fear that, one day, their loved o
nes would wake from their trance: perhaps because they had at last become immune to the increasingly stronger and increasingly more regular doses; perhaps because they had heard of regular visits to or deliveries from Mr Gillars’ establishment.
Worst of all was the knowledge that the love was unnatural, nothing more than an enchantment.
Every one of these complications, so inherent within Mr Gillars’ potions, would be nullified by Caputo’s love poison.
The poison would act only on the love that one held for another.
Was it possible?
Well, why not?
The ingredients he had gathered together were those he knew had instilled a momentary madness within his victims, enough to make them kill themselves.
They had, in effect, been made to hate themselves.
And so, if a person can be made to hate himself (or herself), then why couldn't a person be persuaded to fall out of love with some other person?
No; Caputo didn’t see why such a thing should be deemed impossible.
He just needed to bring together certain accidents of the way his potions worked, to control them, to increase their effectiveness and lessen that of others: the correlations, the correspondences – the coincidences.
Yes, yes; he was already beginning to sense the most glorious of patterns.
A touch of the venom of a certain serpent; that would be its base. How apt, this being the time of the 13th Zodiac, of Ophiuchus the Serpent Bearer.
He was interrupted by a hesitant knock at the door. As usual, as Caputo had instructed him to do if it were a matter of urgency, his servant opened the door without waiting for Caputo’s response and entered.
‘There’s a client to see you, sir, who was most insistent that he sees you now,’ the servant apologised. ‘It’s the Impresario Guilfo.’
*
Chapter 14
Guilfo was in an even worse mood than usual.
He hadn’t expected to be visiting Master Caputo again. He had presumed that the problem that was Forisimo had been dealt with.
But he had seen in Cauda’s eyes that this damned Forisimo still wielded influence over her, even when he was no longer around to see her.
That’s why she had faulted in her dance: she was thinking of him!
That’s the only illness she suffered from; an illness called Forisimo!
If his mere absence caused her such pain, then what would she be like when she saw him being carried off to the executioner?
The only answer was to destroy her love for him, as had originally been intended.
Guilfo was in no mood for small talk.
Naturally, this arrogant Master Caputo expressed his surprise at seeing him visiting his shop once more.
‘I had thought that, with Forisimo out of the way…’ Caputo added, letting his voice trail off towards the end, the implication clear enough: the poison maker was gloating, sublimely delighted that Guilfo was begging for his help once more.
‘Is it ready?’ Guifo snapped. ‘You promised me–’
‘I promised you nothing I couldn’t deliver; but there is a question of time…’
‘The question of time is already answered: we don’t have any more time!’
‘My potion hasn’t been tested–’
‘You’ve failed?’
‘No! But I prefer to make tests–’
‘Will it kill her? Injure her, in any way?’
‘Of course not! It will, as promised, affect only her capacity for love; though, at present, I can’t be sure–’
‘Can’t be sure? That sounds like failure to me!’
‘I’m not sure if it will only be her love for Forisimo that affecte–’
‘But it will only be her love? And she will no longer love Forisimo?’
‘Yes, naturally; but I would advise–’
‘Do you insist on lecturing all your customers, Master Caputo? If you do, I’m surprised you actually have any to impart your wisdom to! Simply advise me on the dosage; and the best way to apply it!’
*
‘Visitor,’ the gaoler gruffly announced, smiling merrily as he jangled a pile of sparkling coins in his hand: undoubtedly his way of saying to Forisimo that he would only allow visitors willing to richly reward him for his troubles.
The other prisoners scattered about the cell, all of them apparently ancient men or women (although Forisimo feared that it was the prison’s conditions that had aged them all prematurely), eyed Forisimo enviously: it had obviously been a long time since they had had anyone calling to see them.
Forisimo immediately recognised Cauda as she stepped through the cell’s heavy door, despite the way she was covering her face with a handkerchief in a vain attempt to protect herself from the stench of the cell.
‘Give me a shout if you have any problems from this lot,’ the gaoler added with a sidelong sneer at the other inmates as he retreated back through the door, closing it behind him.
‘Cauda; no! I didn't want you seeing me like this!’
He held back from rushing to greet her; he was filthy, dishevelled. He stank: he’d not only had no opportunity to wash, but had also frequently found himself unintentionally rolling around in the mess left by the other prisoners amongst the straw.
‘I’d only just heard of your arrest…’
Despite his condition, Cauda rushed towards him; only for Forisimo to warily step back, waving his hands out before him to keep her at a distance.
‘Please Cauda; there’s nothing I want more than to hold you again – but not like this!
He held his arms open, drawing her attention to the filth covering his clothes.
‘How did you get away from Guilfo’s men?’ he asked concernedly.
‘I’d seen who was following me: I shook them off in the market, where it was crowded.’
Forisimo nodded, but he realised his expression could only be one of someone merely partially satisfied with the answer: Guilfo’s men weren’t so stupid they could be so easily thwarted.
Then again, even if they were aware of Cauda’s visit to him, and informed Guilfo: what more could he do to them? For it was surely Guilfo who had arranged all this.
‘It’s not true, is it?’ Cauda demanded, her eyes flitting over his bloodied clothes, his skin. ‘You didn’t kill your servant, did you?’
Forisimo shook his head, surprised that Cauda could even ask this question of him.
‘No! Of course not! He was already dead when I arrived home after visiting you!’
‘Then surely there are witnesses…’
He gave another shake of his head, accompanying it this time with a bitter laugh.
‘The ones who saw anything who have spoken up say they saw three men approaching my door–’
‘Then why are you still here?’ Cauda exclaimed brightly. ‘There are your real murderers–’
‘They say I was amongst them; a mask, obviously!’
‘Then the mask maker will be able to say–’
‘Nothing; what would that do to his reputation, when it’s known he’s willing to inform the authorities about anyone purchasing his wares?’
‘It was Guilfo, do you think?’
‘Who else would do this to me?’
‘Then I’m not returning–’
‘No, no, Cauda; I’m sorry, but you must return!’ In his desperation he leapt forwards to grab her hands, despite the way he had restrained himself up until now. ‘My only chance is if you can find some proof that Guilfo is responsible, not me! I don’t want to ask this of you, but it won’t be for long as–’
He couldn’t finish. He didn’t want to worry her further by telling her his execution was set to be just a few days from now.
‘The machine!’ Cauda’s eyes widened with excitement. ‘He came back with a lantern, that I’m sure could only be one of yours!’
Forisimo nodded in agreement miserably.
‘It undoubtedly was Guilfo, then. He took it from my room, when Purnito was murde
red.’
‘Then you’re–’
Forisimo cut off her elated cry.
‘No, Cauda, no! I and Purnito were the only ones who knew I’d had it in my room. All he has to say is that it was made by someone else.’
‘But won’t you know something about it that he wouldn’t know?’ Cauda persisted hopefully. ‘What does it do? No light comes from it?’
‘Then he simply claims he’d bought it from me earlier, and hasn’t worked out everything about it yet. Like my earlier lanterns, it captures images; but this time, Cauda, it’s images that move!’
He tightened his already excited grip on her hands.
‘When I played it back, Cauda; it was like you were in the room with me!’
‘Of me? You took images of me?’
Cauda seemed shocked, even a little disturbed, that Forisimo had captured images of her upon one of his machines: and without even telling her, too!
Forisimo was ashamed.
‘I’m truly sorry, Cauda: I meant to tell you. But I thought you might be conscious that I was attempting to capture you, and it would spoil your performance.’
He hoped his apology would satisfy her. But she didn’t reply; rather, she briefly appeared to be deep in thought, as if she were considering whether she should tell him something or not.
She glanced about their miserable surroundings.
‘Isn’t there a magical device you could come up with to get you out of here?’ she whispered nervously, naturally worried that someone might overhear.
Forisimo chuckled sourly.
‘They’re not really magical,’ he admitted, adding dejectedly with a wave of his had towards the filthy floor, ‘Bedsides, not even Rumpelstiltskin could weave such a magical device out of nothing but straw.’
*
Chapter 15
Thankfully, Cauda had regained her composure.
Guilfo watched her performance with growing pleasure.
So, it had been her love for that pipsqueak Forisimo that had caused all the problems.
He recognised that he had taken a chance, letting the rumours that Forisimo had been imprisoned seep back to her. It could, after all, have sent her completely over the edge.
But just as he had hoped, she’d tried to slip away from his men to visit him in gaol.