of flesh slapping flesh made his ear ring. The blow
jolted his head to one side.

It was not very painful. It was meant to insult more than to hurt. To
test. And rage did erupt in Daoud like a fountain of fire. His muscles
tensed, the bindings cutting deeper, and the chair creaked.

D'Ucello was trying to break through the Mask of Clay. But the mask held
firm, because the Face of Steel, Daoud's spiritual armor, was beneath
it. The fury of Daoud the Mameluke, who yearned to tear d'Ucello apart,
remained hidden. It was David of Trebizond who blustered at the
indignity of being slapped without cause.

"How dare you strike me, Signore!" he protested. "I have done nothing to
deserve that, nothing to deserve being dragged here in the night and
tied up. I demand to know--what do you want of me?"

D'Ucello sighed like a chess player whose opponent had escaped check,
and went back to his seat in the window recess. Daoud saw the flickering
glow of heat lightning through the thick leaded-glass window behind the
podesta.

"I dislike intensely being made to waste time," said d'Ucello, drumming
his fingers on his knee. "Listen carefully: Every time you force me to
tell you something we both already know, I will prolong your suffering
another hour."

Daoud allowed a note of fear to creep into his voice. "Suffering? I beg
you, Signore, believe me. Even if you torture me, I still cannot tell
you anything different from what I will freely tell you. Ask me whatever
you want."

The Mask of Clay was useless with this man, Daoud saw. The podesta's
mind had pierced it. How had he been able to do that? Because he was a
man who observed much and thought much, unlike most men Daoud had met in
Orvieto, who let their passions rule them.

Yet d'Ucello had passions. He was a proud man, who must hate standing by
helplessly, holding the supreme office in Orvieto, watching the two
great families bespatter his city with blood. If he could not stop the
Filippeschi and the Monaldeschi from murdering each other, at least he
could do _something_.

D'Ucello had seen enough of Daoud's comings and goings to make him
suspicious. Like a hawk soaring above a plain, the podesta might be too
high up to know exactly what he saw below, but he knew when he sighted
prey. And perhaps d'Ucello saw that this prey, if hunted rightly, would
lead him to others.

D'Ucello leaned forward, out of the shadow of the window recess.

"There was a man in black who tri