t he forced words out.

"What are you going to do with me? Are you setting me free?"

The podesta nodded, his lips tight. "It seems that way."

"Why?"

"Be good enough to wait for an explanation until we are in private."

Daoud tried to read d'Ucello's round, swarthy face, but he could not
tell whether the podesta was relieved or angry.

When Daoud did try to stand and put his weight on the burned and beaten
soles of his feet, he had to clench his teeth to keep himself from
screaming. His legs, which had borne the brunt of Erculio's attentions,
felt lifeless, and his knees buckled. He toppled forward, and d'Ucello
caught him. The podesta staggered under Daoud's weight. He snapped his
fingers at a guard, who hurried over to help hold Daoud up.

As Daoud, gasping, leaned against him, d'Ucello unclasped his cloak and
wrapped it around Daoud to cover his nakedness.

_Such solicitude_, Daoud thought wryly. _I think I have suddenly become
terribly valuable to him._

This could not be just the contessa's influence, he thought. He did not
mean that much to her.

_The Sienese._

That must be it. Erculio had said d'Ucello believed Daoud was a
Ghibellino agent, and therefore he would want to kill Daoud before the
Ghibellino army from Siena got here. But not, Daoud thought, if d'Ucello
intended to surrender.

Erculio pressed something into his hand, a small leather pouch--the
tawidh.

Daoud painfully bent his head toward Erculio and read gladness in the
beady eyes.

"May you find work that suits you better, Messer Erculio," said Daoud.
_God give you joy_, he thought.

"What he does suits him all too well, the little monster," said
d'Ucello.

The podesta's men brought a litter, and two big guards, complaining
about Daoud's size, slowly climbed the basement steps, stopped to rest
for a time at the top and then carried Daoud up the marble staircase
leading from the ground floor to the first floor of the Palazzo del
Podesta. They were staggering by the time they lifted Daoud onto a bed
in a small room. D'Ucello ordered the guards to send Fra Bernardino to
him.

Two walls of the room were lined with books and boxes of scrolls. So
many books must be worth a fortune, Daoud thought. The other walls were
painted a pleasant lemon color, the ceiling a deep blue. A concave
mirror, set at an angle in the wall beside the glazed mullioned window,
could direct daylight toward the writing table. The translucent window
glass