he hard, cold floor.

* * * * *

Hearing a knock at his chamber door, Daoud rolled up the slip of thin
parchment and dropped it into the purse at his belt.

Sordello entered at his command, greeting and saluting him.

"I see you are one of us, Messer David."

"One of who?"

Sordello pointed to the writing desk where Daoud had been standing and
the sheaf of quill pens. "One who had his letters. I write down all my
songs."

Daoud had no wish to feel kinship with Sordello. The bravo had not
bothered to clean the whiskers from his face for several days, and there
was untidy-looking gray stubble, like fur, under his nose and on his
cheeks and chin. A man should grow a beard, Daoud thought, or keep his
cheeks smooth.

"What brings you to me?" Daoud asked curtly.

"The Count de Gobignon sent a message to me by way of Ana, the Bulgarian
woman. Would you care to read it?"

De Gobignon's note read: "The lady Sophia, Cardinal Ugolini's niece, has
represented herself to me as an honest woman who knows nothing of
politics and takes sides neither for nor against the Tartar alliance.
Find out if she is telling the truth. Report to me in three days' time."

Daoud felt pleased with himself. Turning Sordello into a spy for himself
was yielding useful results. It was not surprising that the Frenchman
was suspicious of Sophia. She was so close to the party opposing the
alliance; how could he think otherwise? But now, Daoud thought happily,
they had the means to put his suspicions to rest.

Daoud handed the note back to Sordello, saying, "That is short and to
the point, but he does not tell you how you are to learn whether Madonna
Sophia is telling him the truth or not."

"I could tell him that I have sung at dinner for the cardinal's
household," said Sordello. "I could report a conversation at table which
shows Madonna Sophia to be the innocent he would like to think she is."

"You keep talking about your songs and your singing," Daoud said.
"Answer me truly--are you any good at those things?"

Sordello shrugged. "I could claim to be one of the finest trovatores in
all Italy, but if I did, you would rightfully ask why I have to make my
living as a hired man-at-arms. So I will say only that I am good enough
that I wish I could spend all my time making poetry and singing."

A worthy wish, Daoud thought. Hearing his careful self-estimate, Daoud's
respect for the man increased a bit.

"Then y