not fully trust her, he felt oddly
comfortable with her?

"And where are the young and beautiful and unhappy women in this house,
then?"

She smiled and laid a hand on his arm. "Are you here to avail yourself?"

"First, I want to send a message to my master. Then that."

"Of course. Come with me."

He followed her up the marble steps, idly wondering if her rump looked
as huge with her gown off, and whether Cardinal Ugolini actually did go
to bed with her, and if so how he could be aroused by such a grossly fat
woman. Not that Ugolini, with his rodent's face, was any more attractive
than his mistress.

The stairs to the third floor were narrower and darker and more winding,
and after that there was a maze of corridors to negotiate. Even with the
help of the Sufi mental training for warriors, Daoud knew he would never
be able to find his way here again.

Tilia gestured to a trapdoor. "Push that back for me."

Daoud climbed a ladder, raised the heavy door, and found himself on a
walkway built over the centerline of a roof. It was wide enough for two
men to stand side by side, but there was no railing, and on either side
the red-tiled roof sloped down sharply. The walkway led to a small
structure made of wooden slats, from which Daoud heard fluttering and
cooing. The sight of the dovecote and the sound of the warbling pigeons
reminded Daoud of the rooftops of El Kahira, and for a moment he yearned
for a sight of the Bhar al-Nil flowing swiftly past the city or the
sound of the muezzin's call to prayer.

He stopped to look around. This was an excellent vantage point. From
here he could see that Tilia's mansion was actually shaped like
Ugolini's, a hollow square around an atrium. The difference was that her
establishment was made from the joining of many houses that had once
been separate. From here he could also see most of Orvieto. Rows and
rows of peaked roofs glowed warm red and orange in the sunset. Off in
the northwest corner of the city bulked the great roof of the cathedral,
like a galley among rowboats. To the south, the six square turrets of
the pope's palace. And on all sides of the city, the rounded green hills
of this part of Italy called Umbria.

"The piccioni fly to Napoli," said Tilia breathlessly behind him. Daoud
was amazed at how she had managed to climb so many steps and finally a
ladder. There must be muscle under all that fat.

He pulled open the whitewashed wooden door of the dovecote. His