"Alfredo was my cousin," said a tall bravo in a rust-colored cape. "But
I cannot avenge him alone."
"Alfredo was impetuous," said the young man. "He acted before I gave an
order."
"You are no leader, Marco, if you will not undertake the vendetta for
one of your men."
_The vendetta. These Italians are like the desert tribesmen. Kill one of
them, and you have his family to deal with._
"I will show you what kind of a leader I am if you speak that way to me
again," said Marco.
"Enough, enough," said one of the other bravos, and the man in the
rust-colored cape shrugged.
It was now almost daylight, and Daoud studied the face of the young man
called Marco. He could not be more than seventeen, Daoud thought,
looking at his smooth cheeks and downy black mustache.
_Marco!_ He had heard that the head of the Filippeschi family was a
young Conte Marco di Filippeschi.
"What do you propose, Messere?" said Marco.
"Meet me in front of the Church of Sant' Agnes," Lorenzo said. "This
evening at Compline. Come alone, as I will. There are things we can
discuss, I think, to our mutual profit."
Marco bowed to Lorenzo. "I shall expect you, Messere." He gestured, and
the man in the reddish cape and one other picked up the body of Alfredo.
"Momento, Messeres," said Sordello, moving to the body in three quick
strides. He bent down, reached under the body, and with a jerk of his
hand pulled free a long, thin throwing knife, which he wiped on his
cape.
"I can ill afford to lose so well-balanced a knife as this."
Alfredo's cousin, holding the body by the shoulders, said, "I know your
name, Andrea Sordello, and your face. You will not need that knife much
longer."
Sordello made a mock bow. "Be assured, Messere, this knife will not miss
_you_, if we should meet again."
A moment later the Filippeschi and their burden had disappeared into the
alley.
Daoud studied the dark irregular stain where the fallen man had bled on
the rain-damp paving stones of the campiello. It was dawn, already past
Fajr, the time for morning prayer.
_God is great. In the name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful. All
praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds._
"I advise you not to have any dealings with the Filippeschi, Messeres,"
Sordello said suddenly. "They'll betray you."
Even though he had given no outward sign that he was praying, Daoud was
angered at being interrupted. He eyed Sordello. The man was shorter than
he, about fifty years of age, Daoud judged. His hair was a good deal
grayer than Lorenzo's, and it hung lankly down to his jawline under a
shabby maroon cap. The bones of Sordello's nose and brows were thickened
and flattened, as if they had been broken many times. It was the face of
an old fighter, the sort of face that usually commanded Daoud's respect,
be it borne by Christian or Muslim. But when Daoud looked at him,
Sordello stared back fixedly, unnaturally, as if it were an effort to
look Daoud in the eye.
"Was your advice asked, Messere?" Lorenzo growled.
_He feels about the man as I do_, Daoud thought. Now, Daoud thought,
Sordello would bluster about saving their lives, and he would ask for
employment.
"Forgive me," Sordello said. "I presumed too much." He pulled off his
cap and bowed to the surprised Daoud. Either he was a better man than he
seemed at first glance, or he was much more devious.
"Forgive _us_," Daoud said, bowing back, though not as deeply, and
drawing a disapproving grunt from Lorenzo. "We owe you our deepest
gratitude. How came you leaping down from the housetops when we needed
help so badly?"
"I have been looking for a chance to meet Messer Giancarlo. Tonight I
waited outside the Monaldeschi palace, hoping that you would emerge from
the reception in a good mood. While I and my fellows were hanging about
the palace, we chanced to see those brigosi lurking in the shadows
nearby. When you came out, it was you they chose to follow, so we
followed them. When you went down this alley, we took to the rooftops,
the better to surprise your enemies."
"Why were you looking for me?" Lorenzo asked gruffly.
"I heard that you pay well for men who are adept with sword and dagger
and who ask no questions about what they might be hired for."
"I also like a man who does not talk much," said Lorenzo. "You talk a
great deal."
"Yes, Messer Giancarlo." Sordello lowered his eyes. Again, that
disarming humility.
The man was resourceful and quick-thinking. He was arrogant one moment,
humble the next.
"How did you come to Orvieto, Sordello?" Daoud asked him.
"I served Sigismundo Malatesta, governor of Rimini, until his death,"
said Sordello. "Since then I have not found a suitable master. I was
traveling south, thinking perhaps of offering my sword to King Manfred,
when I heard of you, Messer Giancarlo, while passing through Viterbo."
Daoud felt uneasy, hearing that Lorenzo's recruiting expeditions were
being gossiped of in the cities around here. And how easily Sordello had
been able to make the connection between Giancarlo and David of
Trebizond. Just as Tilia had said, it was impossible to hire men without
attracting attention.
He realized Lorenzo was waiting for him to speak.
"You may walk with us to Cardinal Ugolini's mansion," Daoud said.
When they emerged from the alley, there was no sign of the Filippeschi.
Two of Sordello's men walked in front of Daoud and Lorenzo, and Sordello
and the other man followed behind them. The wine had worn off
altogether, but Daoud felt a throbbing pain behind his eyes and a great
need to sleep.
"Well?" Lorenzo said, keeping his voice low. "The man wants us to hire
him."
"We need more men, and we want clever street fighters," said Daoud. "He
is that."
"Yes, but he is the type of man I detest," said Lorenzo. "I did not need
him to kill that Filippeschi bravo for me. He acts before he thinks."
"After tonight we may not have to attack the French directly," Daoud
said. "On the other hand, we are sure to have further need of
bodyguards, and I think Sordello and his three companions would suit.
Let us give ourselves time to think. Tell him you will meet him and give
him our answer in two days."