r Signory, I
watch them as closely as those priests watch the miraculous altar cloth.
Ugolini has been in despair all winter, since Fra Tomasso changed sides.
He buries himself in his cabinet with his magical instruments. David
has lost interest in the Tartars and thinks only about trade. He talks
to Giancarlo of making up a caravan to go back to Trebizond. The two of
them left for Perugia on business yesterday."

"What about Giancarlo's bravos?"

"Altogether, Giancarlo has hired only a dozen such men, including
myself. We guard David's goods and escort his caravans." Sordello waved
a hand in dismissal.

"And what of the cardinal's niece?" said Simon, trying not to sound
especially interested.

Sordello shrugged. "That lovely lady stays apart. She goes to church,
she reads, she paints."

Worried though he was about the impending Filippeschi attack, Simon's
heart felt lightened by joy. Sophia was innocent. His love for her was
vindicated. After this was over he would come to her and broach
marriage.

"You must watch Madonna Sophia for me," Simon said. "Stay close to her.
Do not let her go out tonight."

"Stay close to her." Sordello grinned. "That will not be hard, Your
Signory."

Simon seized the front of Sordello's tunic. "Never speak that way of
her."

Sordello jerked away from Simon and brushed his tunic. "I am a man, Your
Signory. Do not treat me like a slave." The coarse face was pale with
outraged pride.

_He forgets his place so easily. But there is no one else to guard
Sophia for me._

"I want you to be thinking about her safety, and that alone," he said in
a calmer voice.

Sordello bowed. "I understand, Your Signory." But resentment still
burned in his narrowed eyes.

In the midst of his fear, like a single candle glowing in a pitch-black
cathedral, Simon felt a tingle of anticipation. There was something in
him, deeply buried but powerful, that keenly looked forward to taking
command in battle.

"If you learn any more, try to get word to me," he told Sordello.

He turned and hurried through the nave of the cathedral to the front
doors, still holding in check the urge to run.

* * * * *

"For them to attack is pazzia," said the contessa. "We have twice the
men-at-arms they do. Yet I pray God this rumor is true. By tomorrow
morning Marco di Filippeschi will be hanging from our battlements." The
cords in her neck stood out, her nose was thrust forward like a