The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,128

was somewhere behind the crippled trees and the crumbling ruins. Finally he caught sight of the rotting pier. The words of the old man echoed through his head.

Benvenuto nella casa del diavolo.

Welcome to the house of the devil.

Far out in the gray waters of the lagoon he could see fishing boats, but they were too far away to hear him. There must be some way to get off this—

A solitary low bell sounded.

Johann spun around in panic. The sound had definitely come from the campanile by the two churches. Had that crazy old man rung the bell?

Another chime rang out.

In the distance, right about where the square in front of the churches lay, Johann saw a small cloud of dust rise into the air. Something was brewing there.

Something was coming closer.

A third stroke of the bell.

Without thinking about it, Johann started racing along the shore like a hunted animal. The bell was just ringing out for the fourth time when he spotted a small rowing boat covered with rotten leaves amid the reeds. A fisherman must have hidden it there, maybe one of the few people who still lived on the island. Maybe even the man from earlier. The boat was flat and looked rather rotten, with several inches of bilgewater within it. But at least there were oars. Panting, Johann pushed the boat out into the water and jumped inside. The vessel rocked dangerously, but it didn’t sink and didn’t take on more water. As the bells continued to toll, Johann rowed as if the devil himself was after him. His heart raced. He only slowed down a little when the shore was nothing but a thin brown stripe. He tried to catch his breath.

He scanned the distant shoreline one last time—and started with fright once more.

Someone appeared to be standing on the pier. Johann blinked several times, but he was too far away to make out any details. Still, he thought the figure wasn’t the old man from before, but someone else.

It was a man, and he waved as if asking Johann to come back.

Johann knew this was impossible. What he was seeing was merely a figment of his panicked imagination. But far, far away and at the same time deep down inside him, a voice called out again and again, asking him to return to Torcello, the island of the devil.

It was the voice of Tonio del Moravia.

It took Johann a good three hours to make it back to the Flute Inn. He rowed over to the isle of Burano, from which a larger fishing boat carried him to Venice. When the fishermen gave the young man with the chalky-white face and the flickering eyes a closer look, they decided not to ask where he had come from. There was something sinister about the black-haired youth, something as ominous as the scent of pestilence, and the men were relieved when they dropped him off at the quay in Venice.

During the silent crossing, Johann had come to a decision: he would leave Venice that very day. He had no idea what had happened on Torcello or why Archibaldus had to die in such a cruel way, but evidently it had something to do with Signore Barbarese and the man’s library. Archibaldus had tried to warn Johann and paid with his life—but not without leaving him one last clue. A name.

Gilles de Rais.

Johann had never heard the name before, but he sensed that he was in grave danger. Those who had crucified Archibaldus wouldn’t hesitate to kill him, too. The magister had been right: Signore Barbarese really was a devil worshipper, or at least had something to do with those circles. There was no other explanation for the cynical execution at the church. Barbarese must have been afraid that Archibaldus would betray his secret. And so he’d punished the poor old man in a gruesome manner. But what was it that Archibaldus had wanted to show Johann on Torcello? What secret lay on the swampy island?

On his way back to the inn, Johann kept looking over his shoulder in the narrow lanes. His enemies could be anywhere. But try as he might, he couldn’t spot any pursuers. Out of breath, he rushed up the stairs to his chamber and immediately began stuffing clothes into his travel bag. When he was about to pack his knife away, he paused with fright. For the first time in a long while he noticed the initials engraved in the handle.

G d R.

“Gilles de