Again that tense, besieged feeling came over Simon, the same as when he met this man on the road. There was too much going on in Orvieto, almost all of it surprising and much of it seemingly dangerous. If he wanted to be sure the Tartars were safe, he would have to give up sleeping. The dog dropped to all fours and stood beside his master. The other did not acknowledge having seen Simon before. "Forgive us, Signore. I fear Scipio has gotten dust on your tunic." "There is nothing to forgive," said Simon. He brushed off his plum-colored tunic. "Do you serve Cardinal Ugolini?" This time he would not let the man pass without questioning him. "I am Giancarlo, Signore, a servant of Messer David of Trebizond." He bowed deeply. Feeling angry because he was sure he was being lied to, Simon wanted to ask about the men with Giancarlo on the road, but decided it was better not to appear too suspicious. _Let them think I am a naive young nobleman, easily gulled. Not so far from the truth, anyway._ "Are you also from Trebizond, Messer Giancarlo?" The dark brown eyes were watchful. "I am a Neapolitan, Signore. Messer David hired me when he arrived in Italy." _So it is David of Trebizond who is bringing bravos into the city. What for?_ * * * * * Out on the street, Simon looked at the spot where the crossbowmen had spilled two men's blood. He felt a weary anger. Two lives cut off because of that fool de Verceuil and his vanity. Where the men had been shot there now stood rows of bowls and pots, from small to large. They were painted white, with pretty floral designs in red, blue, and green. A woman sat on the ground beside the display, painting a freshly baked jug. She looked up at Simon, then scrambled to her feet and stood, bowing deeply. "Fine vases and plates, Your Signory? The earthenware of Orvieto is the most beautiful in the world." Simon smiled. "No doubt, but not today, thank you." He must remember to bring some samples back to Gobignon, though, he thought. It was fine-looking ware, and it might give the potters of Gobignon-la-Ville some good ideas. He turned and stared back at the mansion, a great cream-colored cube of the same tufa as the rock on which Orvieto stood. From that rooftop, David of Trebizond had watched the heckling, the throwing of garbage and dung, the sudden killings. Simon almost expected to see David appear on the roof now, but it remained empty. The cardinal's mansion remained flat and featureless, revealing nothing. Simon sighed longingly. _Oh, for another glimpse of the cardinal's niece._ But there was no sign of her, and he could not stand here any longer. Sighing again, he walked away. XVI