She jumped as a crash of splintering pottery sounded in the shop behind her. The sound was immediately followed by Giovanni's loud cursing. "Sanchia! Where the devil are you?"
She consciously braced herself and turned to open the door. "I was just getting some air. It's so--" She gazed in horror at the disaster across the room. A pottery jug lay broken on the scribe table, and Giovanni was making futile dabs with a cloth at the rich red wine spreading on the two leaves of parchment in front of him.
"No!" Sanchia hurried across the room to stand looking down at the first leaf. It was ruined, the ink running over the parchment. She carefully lifted it away from the one beneath. The second leaf was still legible, but the liquid had soaked through and it would also have to be recopied. "You've ruined it."
"You can fix it," Giovanni mumbled, shaking his shaggy graying head. "I don't have to deliver the work until noon tomorrow." He turned and walked unsteadily toward the room at the back of the shop. "Sleepy... You can fix it."
Yes, she could fix it, Sanchia thought in weary exasperation, but it would take all night and most of tomorrow. Thank the saints Bartolomeo had put the rest of the folio neatly away in the cabinet as soon as he had finished setting the type for each leaf, or this accident could have been a true catastrophe. He had only left these last two leaves out to have them in readiness to set the type early tomorrow morning. Though this disaster was certainly bad enough. Messer Rudolfo was a scholar as well as a merchant, and he would have been furious to have his original Convivio destroyed. He might have yielded to the current fashion of having copies of books in his library printed on the modern marvel of a printing press, but he still had a fondness for the beauty of the originals as well as a merchant's appreciation for their intrinsic worth. She would have not only to replace Rudolfo's original leaves with two of equally fine script but to start setting the type herself tonight. She and Bartolomeo had judged it would take both of them working at high speed from the first light of dawn tomorrow to print those last two leaves and finish on time. Now that Bartolomeo would be forced to do the printing alone while she did the hand copying, some of the typesetting must be done tonight.
"I'll clean off the table."
Sanchia turned to see Piero at the door leading to the small storage room. He was rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands and looked endearingly tousled and warm, even younger than his six years. She felt a rush of affection and suddenly the world didn't seem such a grim place. Life had its ugly patches but it wasn't all ugly. There were children like Piero and beautiful words on parchment and probably hundreds of other wonderful things she couldn't recall or still had to learn about. "Go back to your pallet," she said gently. "I can do this myself."
He shook his head as he came over to the table and began to clean up the shards of pottery. His small, sturdy body was swaying a little and he was almost asleep on his feet, she thought tenderly. Yet she knew he would stubbornly continue to try to help her. Yes, there were many wonderful things that men like Caprino and Giovanni couldn't besmirch, and companionship and love were two of them.
"I'll get Bartolomeo up." Piero carried the pottery shards to the big straw basket across the room. "He can set the type."
Sanchia shook her head. "Bartolomeo went to sleep only an hour ago."
"You haven't slept at all," Piero answered. "I'll get Bartolomeo up." He disappeared into the room where the four of them slept.
A moment later Sanchia heard the grumbling protests of a very sleepy Bartolomeo and then Piero's determined voice. "No, I won't let you go back to sleep. Sanchia needs us."
Sanchia smiled. Young as he was, Piero could never be deterred once he had decided something must be done. Her smile faded when she remembered it was only his stubbornness that had kept him alive when his mother had abandoned him to the streets and gone into one of Caprino's brothels. Piero had been like a fierce young animal for weeks after Sanchia had found him in an alley off the Piazza della Signoria two years before.
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.
Chapter Two.
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 gian
t, 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 Giovan
ni 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?"
Elizabet, somewhere beyond the giant's broad shoulders, gasped. Sanchia was too frightened to gasp, too frightened to speak, to frightened to do anything but stare at him.
He frowned. "Answer me."
"I don't... " She stopped and swallowed hard. "Are you going to imprison me?"
"Isn't that what should happen to thieves?"
Elizabet sobbed brokenly. "Sanchia, I told him not to come in. I told him... "
The man was ignoring Elizabet, his gaze fixed intently on Sanchia's face. "Isn't the Stinche where you belong?" he repeated.