The Saracen: Land of the Infidel by Robert Shea (best fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

is no need for anyone to intervene unless he starts to resist. And then you can kill him as easily as I can."

Lorenzo stood up and bowed formally. "Thank you for your trust, Messere."

If I am right in thinking that he hates this as much as I do, then he hates me for making him stay here.

The thump of Daoud's boots on the cobblestones echoed against the fronts of the huddled houses. Armed with sword and dagger, his head clear, and keeping to the wider streets, Daoud felt safe from attack, even though it was well past midnight. Besides, the Filippeschi had been won over, so he need no longer fear them. Fear, he thought, was the wrong word for it. Tonight he would welcome battle.

And he had the Scorpion with him tonight. He no longer ever made the mistake of going about in the streets of Orvieto at night without carrying the Scorpion in a concealed pocket in his cloak.

He walked past the cathedral church of San Giovenale, and once again from the open doors heard the pale voices of the priests of the cathedral chapter. A heavy odor of incense, carried on the moist night air, filled his nostrils.

Pain crushed his heart as he passed beyond the pool of light that spilled out the cathedral door. He seemed to feel a heavy hand on his shoulder, and looked up. Conjured up from memory, his blond father appeared to tower over him, a red cross on the shoulder of his white mantle. A warm hand gripped Daoud's, and his mother, her red-gold hair bound with pearls, smiled down at him. Her dress was blue, like the dress she had died in.

What memories torment Rachel, he wondered.

[343]

Just ahead of him, the narrow street opened into the broader one that ran past Cardinal Ugolini's mansion. He had just passed an inn called Vesuvio, after the burning mountain near Napoli, when a door opened softly behind him. Very softly, but it did not escape his trained ear. He glanced back and saw the upper half of a divided door mate with its lower half.

Watching for me? That was unlikely, because a spy watching for him would have had no idea when to expect him and would have had to stand by that door all night. He looked back again at the doorway and then at the cardinal's residence. The street was wide enough to allow a person standing in the doorway of the inn a good view of the front of the mansion.

He walked out into the square and turned to the right so that he could no longer be seen from the inn. Behind a filmy curtain on the third story of the mansion shone a yellow glow. Sophia's room. Was that Simon de Gobignon in the inn doorway?

No, it was not, because now he saw de Gobignon. The unmistakable tall figure was standing in the candlelit window behind the curtain. A thin arm pushed the curtain back, and though the light was behind de Gobignon, Daoud could see the Frenchman plainly, looking down into the square. Even though he was sure de Gobignon could not see him, Daoud stepped farther back into the shadows.

De Gobignon in Sophia's room. Daoud clenched his fists, and his lips drew back in a snarl.

The Scorpion would not carry that far. No, but he could stride closer in an instant, aim at that spidery figure silhouetted against Sophia's lighted window, and bring down his enemy with a single bolt.

Why am I thinking such a thing?

Was he going mad? Sophia would let Simon make love to her, and in his passion he would tell her much. Perhaps Daoud could find out more about why Simon had sent Sordello into his camp. Perhaps Simon would give Sophia some hint about the countermove he must be planning. Meanwhile Sophia would trick Simon into thinking that Fra Tomasso had turned against the alliance.

Killing Simon would be foolishness. Until now the mishaps that had befallen the French and the Tartars had seemed accidental. Murder Simon, and his enemies would have proof that there were plotters in Orvieto, and they would seek them out. And the first place they would look would be the place where Simon was killed,[344] the establishment of Cardinal Ugolini, the chief opponent of the Tartar-Christian alliance.

Still, Daoud felt his blood seethe. He remembered a summer night over ten years before, when he had bribed a slave and slipped through an unlocked gate into the arms of Ayesha, the young wife of Emir Tughril al-Din, then his commanding officer. They had lain together all that night on the roof of the mansion of Tughril al-Din, bathed in sweat, and the sweet terror of the blades that would hew his naked body to pieces if they were discovered goaded him into plunging into her again and again. Only the moon and stars bore witness that he was enjoying the wife of his commander, the man who ordered him about and punished him when he made an error, the man who had the power of life and death over him. Toward dawn, the delight of it bubbled up in his throat and he laughed so loudly that the small Circassian girl put her hand over his mouth.

And now he does to me that which I did to Tughril al-Din.

Daoud shook his head. Nonsense. Sophia was not his wife, and it was for this very purpose, to seduce, corrupt, and spy upon the enemy, that he had brought her here.

To use her, as I used Rachel and the women at Tilia's. First the Tartar took Rachel, and now de Gobignon takes Sophia. And I am nothing but a slave and a panderer.

A second silhouetted figure appeared beside Simon, much shorter, with unbound hair falling in waves and a narrow waist. Daoud saw Sophia rest her hand on his shoulder. A moment later she took the Frenchman's hand, and they both turned away from the window. The curtain fell back in place behind them.

She leads him to bed!

Daoud was shaking with rage. Every muscle in his body ached to kill de Gobignon.

Oh, God, give me the chance to destroy him!

He heard another sound to his left, the scrape of a boot on cobblestones. His hand darting to his sword, he glanced toward the street he had just passed through. Nothing.

De Gobignon had brought a friend or servant with him. The friend was waiting at that inn, where he could watch the front of Ugolini's mansion, and, perhaps, signal to de Gobignon as dawn approached.

De Gobignon's friend had been watching Daoud. He must be all in a sweat, knowing that Daoud had seen the young count in Sophia's window. He would expect Daoud to raise an alarm. And if[345] Daoud did not, then de Gobignon would guess that David of Trebizond approved Simon's making love to the cardinal's niece. And from that it would only be a step to realizing that David and Sophia must be plotting together.

It would extinguish any suspicion of Sophia the count might have if Daoud were to rush into the mansion, raise an alarm, and pursue Simon. But if de Gobignon were caught, it would mean a scandal. His French compatriots would certainly do all they could to stop him from seeing Sophia again.

Again Daoud heard the scrape of a boot sole on the stone of the street. He drew farther back under the overhanging upper story of a house facing the mansion. Now de Gobignon's man could not see him without showing himself.

There was only one thing to do. And it gave Daoud grim satisfaction to realize it.

I cannot kill Simon de Gobignon, but I have to kill his man.

He drew the Scorpion from its pocket in the hem of his cloak. Quickly and silently he unfolded it. A leather case held a sting for the Scorpion, a steel dart half again as long as his finger, coated with the same paste he had used to render Sordello unconscious. He pulled the string of twisted rawhide back with his fist, slipped the dart into place.

The Frank took a step out of hiding. Daoud saw him as a big shadow at the corner of the building. He imagined the Frank's thoughts. He must be trying desperately to think of some way to warn his master before the cardinal's guards were roused.

Daoud raised the Scorpion, but the darkness made the shot difficult. De Gobignon's man was too hard to see.

"Pardonnez-moi, Messire," he said in the language he had not used since he was ten. "I have a message for Monseigneur the Count de Gobignon." He spoke in as casual and friendly a tone as he could muster.

Daoud was close enough now to see that the man's hand was on his sword hilt.

"Why do you speak of the count to me?" The voice was young.

"Because you are his man," said Daoud, and he thumbed the notched wheel that held the bowstring in place. The string thrummed, the dowels sprang forward, and the dart buried itself in the Frenchman's body.

To avoid hitting breastbone or rib, Daoud had aimed for the[346] stomach. The Frank uttered a cry of pain and anger, and his left hand clutched at his middle as his right hand drew his sword.

"You Greek bastard!" he groaned, and fell first to his knees, then on his face. So he had recognized him as David of Trebizond. He must surely die.

Daoud rolled the unconscious man over on his back. His fingers quickly found the dart. Just a bit of it protruded from the Frank's stomach; his fall had driven it deeper. Daoud pulled the dart out, keeping his finger on the wound. He laid the dart on the ground and drew his dagger. He drove it upward just below the breastbone, striking the heart. The man's torso jerked violently, the body trying to save itself even though the mind was asleep. As Daoud pulled the blade out, blood flowed out after it, warm on his hand. He whispered a curse and wiped his hand and his blade on the man's tunic.

This must look like a street stabbing, a man murdered for his purse. Daoud thrust his dagger into the body again, this time in the place where the dart had gone in.

He felt for a heartbeat and found none. He sheathed his dagger, felt for the dart on the street beside the Frank, and put it back in its case. Case and Scorpion went back in the hidden pocket in his cloak.

The Frank's dead body was heavy as he dragged it into the deeper darkness under the overhang of the nearest house. He fumbled about the dead man until he found his purse, a small one and not very heavy, and tucked it into his own belt. The pottery maker would be shocked in the morning to find a robbed and murdered man on his doorstep.

Had anyone seen? The houses around the square were dark and silent as so many stone tombs. There was only that one light in the third-floor window of Ugolini's mansion.

He could not enter the mansion now, with blood on him. Whoever unlocked the gate for him would be sure to connect him with the murdered man who would be found in the morning. Orvieto's authorities would be questioning everyone, and Ugolini could not control what his servants might say.

Back to Tilia's, then.

He chose another street leading out of the square so as not to pass the inn where de Gobignon's man had been on watch. As he walked, he cast his mind back over what he had done. The killing left him troubled.[347]

Saadi had taught him never to waste human life. To wage war is a holy obligation. But have a care that you kill, not with a small soul, but with a great soul.

This had been a necessary murder, Daoud thought. This young Frank had to die that Islam might be saved from infidel hordes of East and West. But, looking into his heart, Daoud knew that he had, indeed, killed with a small soul. He had been forced to kill de Gobignon's man, but he had also wanted to, and he had felt unworthy triumph over Simon de Gobignon. It had not even been an honorable fight. The Frank had no chance.

Purify my heart, oh, God, he prayed as he walked back to Tilia Caballo's brothel.

XXXII

Simon remembered those kisses in the garden of the Palazzo Monaldeschi as he looked again at Sophia, and his arms ached to hold her. But he must keep himself in check. He was still not sure he could trust her. And even if he were certain of her honesty, courtly love commanded him not to touch her until months, perhaps years, of worshipful wooing had passed.

Sophia said, "I must tell my uncle