The Wind Dancer (4 page)

Bartolomeo was yawning as he appeared in the doorway. "Sanchia, I don't--" He
stopped, suddenly awake, and shouted, "Dio!Can you save anything?"

Sanchia shook her head. "They'll both have to be recopied."

Bartolomeo glowered at the door leading to the room where Giovanni lay snoring. "It's
the third time this month. Soon no one will come to him. Messer Arcolo does much
better work and doesn't drink like a swilling pig." His gaze went with possessive pride to
the printing press crouching like a giant wooden grasshopper across the room. "Giovanni
doesn't deserve such a fine instrument. It's wasted on him."

"But not on you," Sanchia said affectionately. "I don't know if you are mother to that
press or it is mother to you."

Piero was tugging at Bartolomeo's wool shirt. "Set the type."

"Dio, give me a minute." Bartolomeo frowned down at Piero. "Will you at least let me
wash the sleep from my eyes?"

Piero shook his head. "Sanchia needs you. She's tired and wants to go to bed."

Sanchia made a face. "There'll be no sleep for me tonight." She handed Bartolomeo the
leaf that could still be read. "If you can get this now, I'll try to have the other leaf
recopied by morning."

Bartolomeo nodded briskly as he glanced down at the page. His drowsiness had
completely vanished, and Sanchia could see the familiar eagerness light his face as he
imagined changing the elegant script to his beloved block print. "I can do it." His tone
was already abstracted as he crossed the room. "It will only take... " He trailed off as his
fingers began sorting through the letter blocks.

Piero finished cleaning off the table and then began moving about the room putting
things in order.

Sanchia went to the cabinet, drew out a leaf of Giovanni's finest parchment, crossed back
to the scribe table, and seated herself. She glanced at the ruined document and quickly set
it aside. No help there; the letters had run together until they were completely
indistinguishable. Thank the saints she had read the entire work earlier in the week, as
she almost always did when Giovanni received a new commission. It was the third
Convivio
the print shop had copied this year, but there were several tiny differences she
had noted in this version. Rudolfo's folio had been obtained from the monks of a
Franciscan monastery, and the holy man who had copied Dante's work had arrogantly
deleted a number of sentences and added others. It would be futile to hope that a scholar
like Messer Rudolfo had not pored over these leaves until he had memorized them to the
last stroke of the pen.

Piero dropped onto the floor beside her chair and leaned his head against her knee. She
absently stroked his fair hair as she tried to clear her mind of weariness.

She felt a sudden rush of panic. What if she couldn't do it this time? What if she couldn't
remember? She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. There was no reason why
she shouldn't remember. Since she was a small child she had been able to remember
everything she had seen down to the tiniest detail. Surely she hadn't lost the ability now
that she needed it so desperately. God was not always kind, but he couldn't be so cruel as
to take away this gift.

She closed her eyes and tried to relax, willing memory to return to her.

And it did!

The leaf was suddenly before her with all its willful inaccuracies. Sweet Mary be praised,
Sanchia thought with relief.

Her lids flicked open and she quickly reached for the quill.

You're late." Caprino jerked Sanchia into the shadows of the arcade surrounding the
piazza. "I told you two o'clock."

"It couldn't be helped," Sanchia said breathlessly. "There was an accident... and we didn't
get finished until an hour... ago... and then I had to wait until Giovanni left to take the--"

Caprino silenced the flow of words with an impatient motion of his hand. "There he is."
He nodded across the crowded piazza. "The big man in the wine-colored velvet cape
listening to the storyteller."

Sanchia's gaze followed Caprino's to the man standing in front of the platform. He was
more than big, he was a giant, she thought gloomily. The careless arrogance in the man's
stance bespoke perfect confidence in his ability to deal with any circumstances and, if he
caught her, he'd probably use his strong hands to crush her head like a walnut. Well, she
was too tired to worry about that right now. It had been over thirty hours since she had
slept. Perhaps it was just as well she was almost too exhausted to care what happened to
her. Fear must not make her as clumsy as she had been yesterday. She was at least glad
the giant appeared able to afford to lose a few ducats. The richness of his clothing
indicated he must either be a great lord or a prosperous merchant.

"Go." Caprino gave her a little push out onto the piazza. "Now."

She pulled her shawl over her head to shadow her face and hurried toward the platform
where Luca Brezal was telling his story, accompanying himself on the lyre. She had
heard Luca many times before and didn't consider him overly talented. She wished the
storyteller were Pico Fallone. Pico could hold an audience spellbound and would have
made it much easier for her to ease close enough to snatch the giant's purse.

A drop of rain struck her face, and she glanced up at the suddenly dark skies. Not yet, she
thought with exasperation. If it started to rain in earnest the people crowding the piazza
would run for shelter and she would have to follow the velvet-clad giant until he put
himself into a situation that allowed her to make the snatch.

Another drop splashed her hand, and her anxious gaze flew to the giant. His attention was
still fixed on the storyteller, but only the saints knew how long he would remain. Her
pace quickened as she flowed like a shadow into the crowd surrounding the platform.

Garlic, Lion thought, as the odor assaulted his nostrils. Garlic, spoiled fish, and some
other stench that smelled even fouler. He glanced around the crowd trying to identify the
source of the smell. The people surrounding the platform were the same ones he had
studied moments before, trying to search out Caprino's thief. The only new arrival was a
thin woman dressed in a shabby gray gown, an equally ragged woolen shawl covering
her head. She moved away from the edge of the crowd and started to hurry across the
piazza. The stench faded with her departure and Lion drew a deep breath. Dio, luck was
with him in this, at least. He was not at all pleased at being forced to stand in the rain
waiting for Caprino to produce his master thief.

"It's done," Lorenzo muttered, suddenly at Lion's side. He had been watching from the far
side of the crowd. Now he said more loudly, "As sweet a snatch as I've ever seen."

"What?" Frowning, Lion gazed at him. "There was no--" He broke off as he glanced
down at his belt. The pouch was gone; only the severed cords remained in his belt.
"Sweet Jesus." His gaze flew around the piazza. "Who?"

"The sweet madonna who looked like a beggar-maid and smelled like a decaying
corpse." Lorenzo nodded toward the arched arcade. "She disappeared behind that
column, and I'll wager you'll find Caprino lurking there with her, counting your ducats."

Lion started toward the column. "A woman," he murmured. "I didn't expect a woman.
How good is she?"

Lorenzo fell into step with him. "Very good."

"A woman... offers interesting possibilities. The guards at the Palazzo wouldn't be
expecting a female."

"Especially not when the woman smells like spoiled trout. I doubt if even a fishmonger
would find her alluring."

"That problem seems easy enough to sol--" Lion broke off as Caprino stepped from
behind the column and started toward them.

A smug smile on his lips, Caprino held up Lion's purse. "You are satisfied? A lift as
graceful as the steps of a pavane."

"Where's the woman?" Lion squinted into the shadowed arcade.

"Gone. I let Sanchia go back to the shop until I learned your decision. There was no point
to involving her further, if you found a woman unsuitable for your purpose."

"She may be adequate," Lion said slowly. "If she proves pliable."

Caprino's lids lowered to veil the sudden glitter in his eyes. "A woman you can own is
always pliable. Did you think I'd forgotten your second requirement? Sanchia is a slave
as her mother was before her. You can buy her and command her to do whatever you
wish her to do." He smiled faintly. "And she would never dare betray you by running
back to tell me or anyone else of your concerns."

"A slave," Lion repeated. Slavery was not allowed in his own city-state of Mandara, but
there were many slaves in other parts of Italy brought from Turkey, Spain, and the
Balkans. "In your service?"

Caprino shook his head. "She belongs to Giovanni Ballano who owns a print shop on the
Via Calimala."

"Who sends her out to steal for him?"

Caprino shook his head. "He doesn't know about it. Giovanni is a drunkard and a fool
who will soon lose his shop and everything he owns. He needs Sanchia's help, but hand
him a jug of good wine and a few ducats and he'll be persuaded to give her up to you."

"More gold?" Lion asked dryly. "This thief is costing me dearly."

"I found what you wanted," Caprino protested. "You can't expect me to impoverish
myself by buying her for you." A thoughtful frown suddenly wrinkled his brow.
"However, out of the goodness of my heart, I'll return half of this purse to you if you
decide to buy Sanchia."

Lion's gaze narrowed. "Indeed? Now why is it you're so eager for me to accept your little
slave girl?"

"It suits me to have her removed from Florence. I have my secrets also, my lord. Is it
agreed?"

Lion gazed at him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "If Ballano can be
persuaded to sell her, I'll accept your lady thief." He took the pouch from Caprino's hand.
"Come to Giulia's tomorrow morning, and I'll return half the gold in the purse."

"You do not trust me?"

Lion's lips twisted in a mirthless smile. "Trust?" He turned and strode across the piazza.

Lorenzo strolled beside him. "You're going to see Ballano now?"

Lion nodded. "We've wasted too much time. I want to be at Solinari by Thursday."

"You think Camari may move the statue?"

"Who knows what that whoreson will do? He seldom does anything without a reason."

"He hates you," Lorenzo observed. "To keep you from getting something you want may
be reason enough."

"Well, he won't succeed." Lion's lips tightened. "The Wind Dancer is mine, and I'll not
let anyone take what belongs to me."

Lorenzo stopped as they reached a table near the door of a trattoriabeneath the arcade on
the south side of the piazza. "I'll wait for you here." He dropped onto a chair at the table
and drew a slim volume from beneath his cloak. "You're being depressingly grim about
this matter, and I have no interest in your petty haggling."

"By all means," Lion agreed ironically. "Heaven forbid you should be bored."

"My thought exactly." Lorenzo opened the book. "Though heaven gave up any interest in
me a long time ago. Run along and conduct your business."

Lion shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. "As you command." He turned and strode
away in the direction of the Via Calimala.

The rain was falling hard when Sanchia arrived at the print shop; a worried frown marred
the serene beauty of Elizabet's face as she met Sanchia at the door. "Giovanni isn't back
yet." She pulled Sanchia into the shop. "You're soaked. You're sure to catch a chill. Come
and have some wine to warm you."

Sanchia shook her head. "Not now. I have to sleep." She moved heavily across the shop
to the storage room and sank to her knees on her pallet. Sighing with weariness, she
stretched out and pulled the worn quilt up to cover her chin. "Wake me when Giovanni
comes back. Where are Piero and Bartolomeo?"

"Giovanni sent them to the wine shop to get a fresh jug for him." Elizabet leaned down to
tuck the quilt more closely around Sanchia's thin body. "Sleep. I'll try to keep Giovanni
from waking you."

Sanchia's lids felt as if they were weighted, and she could hold them open no longer. She
had to sleep, if only for a little while. It probably would be for a mere few precious
moments. She knew Elizabet would try to protect her, but the girl was too gentle-natured
and free from guile to keep Giovanni from doing anything he wanted to do. If Messer
Rudolfo was pleased with their work, Giovanni would quite likely bring back another
commission and want them to start on it at once.

And Messer Rudolfo would be pleased, she thought with a glimmer of pride. She and
Bartolomeo had done excellent work on the Convivio. Really excellent work...

"No, you can't wake her! What do you want with Sanchia?" The note of panic in
Elizabet's voice pierced the heavy clouds of sleep beginning to surround Sanchia.
Something was wrong, she thought drowsily. She had to force her eyes open. No, it was
too difficult. Finally, she managed to awaken herself enough to stare sleepily at the man
standing in the doorway.

Brilliant dark eyes looked at her from a face as stone hard as the statue of Lorenzo
de'Medici in the piazza. Piazza! Shock cleared the last vestiges of sleep from her mind.
This was the man in the piazza!

She sat bolt upright, her heart pounding wildly as she gazed up at him. The giant's
massive body completely filled the doorway, and the tiny storeroom seemed to grow
smaller by the second as if he were draining it of dimension in some magical way. Like
Zeus drawing power from the heavens to loose his thunderbolts, she thought dazedly.

He smiled grimly. "I see you recognize me. It seems the theft of my purse didn't weigh
on your conscience. You were sleeping as soundly as an infant in its mother's arms. Do
you always nap after your thefts?"