The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds by Iris Johansen
Dear Reader,
I couldn’t be happier that The Wind Dancer and Storm Winds are being released in one volume. They are two of my favorite books of all time. When I first got the idea for these two historicals, I knew they’d be special to me. The concept of moving a mystical statue joined with the history of a family through centuries was intriguing. The research was mesmerizing. But once begun, everything else soon took second place to the characters. I love these characters. They came alive for me and wrote the books themselves.
From the moment I finished The Wind Dancer and Storm Winds, I wanted to share them with everyone. I wanted everyone to love Lionello, Sanchia, Jean Marc, Caterina, and all the rest of them as much as I did. And Lorenzo. How could I not mention him, when he was so fascinating to me? You’ll understand after you finish The Wind Dancer.
Do you get the impression that I’m a little enthusiastic? Even after all these years I still feel all the emotion, the love, the laughter, and the tears that I felt when I first wrote these books.
Join me. Come into the Wind Dancer world. You won’t be sorry.
Happy reading!
Iris
BOOKS BY IRIS JOHANSEN
Stormy Vows/Tempest at Sea
Stalemate
An Unexpected Song
Killer Dreams
On the Run
Countdown
Blind Alley
Firestorm
Fatal Tide
Dead Aim
No One to Trust
Body of Lies
Final Target
The Search
The Killing Game
The Face of Deception
And Then You Die
Long After Midnight
The Ugly Duckling
Lion’s Bride
Dark Rider
Midnight Warrior
The Beloved Scoundrel
The Magnificent Rogue
The Tiger Prince
Last Bridge Home
The Golden Barbarian
Reap the Wind
Storm Winds
The Wind Dancer
THE WIND DANCER/STORM WINDS
A Bantam Book / February 2008
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
The Wind Dancer copyright © 1991 by Iris Johansen
Storm Winds copyright © 1991 by Iris Johansen
These titles were originally published individually by Bantam Dell.
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-79362-1
www.bantamdell.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
The Wind Dancer
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Epilogue
An Afterword from the Author
Storm Winds
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Author’s Afterword
About the Author
The Wind Dancer
The Wind Dancer was born of a white-hot bolt of lightning.
So legend has it.
The Wind Dancer’s worth was beyond price; its beauty beyond belief.
So legend has it.
The Wind Dancer could punish the evil, could reward the good.
So legend has it.
The Wind Dancer wielded the power to alter the destinies of men and nations.
So legend has it.
But legend, like history, can be distorted by time, robbed of truth by cynicism—
yet be gifted with splendor by imagination.
One
March 3, 1503
Florence, Italy
Stop, thief! Stop her! I’ve been robbed!”
Sanchia tore across the Mercato Vecchio, raced past the church and on down the street, jumping over an emaciated brown-and-white mongrel that devoured garbage scattered over the flagstones. She ducked under the outstretched arm of a leather-aproned cobbler, but his large hand caught the coarse woolen shawl covering her head. She jerked it from his grasp and kept running.
The merchant chasing her was plump, but still he was closing the distance between them, and Sanchia’s heart slammed against her ribcage in a delirium of panic.
She was going to be caught.
Her hands would be chopped off at the wrists.
She would be thrown in the Stinche to be eaten by the rats.
Hot, agonizing pain shot through her left side. A stitch. She had to keep running.
What would Piero do? she wondered wildly. The others were older; they would find a way to survive. But Piero was only six. So many things could happen to so young a child.…
“Grab her, you fools. The slut stole my purse!”
Dio, Sanchia thought, he sounded close. How could he run so fast with all those rolls of fat hanging around his middle? She dodged around a wheelbarrow filled with fish, turned the corner of the Canto di Vacchereccia, then bolted down an alley yawning between a goldsmith’s shop and an apothecary.
Darkness. Twilight lay over the city but full darkness reined in the alley.
Bright eyes glittered in the deep shadows at the base of the small buildings.
Rats. Dozens of them!
She stopped short, involuntarily recoiling.
The stones beneath the thin soles of her shoes were greasy from the garbage thrown out there by shopkeepers. She need have no fear of the rats, though, while they were feasting on the garbage.
The smell of rotting food in the closeness of the alley was overpowering. She swallowed, trying to fight down the nausea caused as much from terror as the stench.
“Which way did she go?”
The merchant’s voice was wheezing and sounded a little farther away. Had she lost him when she darted into the alley? She shrank back into the densely clotted shadows of the goldsmith’s shop, her palms pressed flat against the stone wall. Her breath was coming in harsh, painful gasps. Could he hear her? She tried to hold her breath, but there was no breath to hold. Cristo, what if he had heard her?
The cold, wet slime-covered wall chilled her back as it penetrated the wool of her gown. Her muscles felt leaden, the blood frozen in her veins. She was suddenly acutely conscious of the sharp,
“This way, you stupid blunderer.”
She stiffened. The voice was not that of the fat merchant but one with which she was bitterly familiar. Her heart gave a wild leap of hope. The alley door of the apothecary shop had opened, and even in the darkness she recognized Caprino’s slight, foppishly dressed silhouette.
She darted the few yards separating them and almost fell through the doorway into the shop. Her gaze flew to the front of the store, but the apprentice behind the small counter was scrupulously avoiding looking in her direction.
“He’s safe,” Caprino said. “He does work for me.”
Poison, Sanchia thought with a shiver, or perhaps the strange white powders Caprino gave his whores.
Caprino slammed the door and held out his hand. “The purse.”
She fumbled beneath her shawl for the soft leather pouch and then dropped it into his palm. She leaned back against the door, her knees shaking so badly she could barely stand upright.
“You were clumsy,” Caprino said harshly. “I should have let that fat fool catch you. Next time I will.”
She had to wait until she could speak without panting. “There won’t be a next time. I’m never going to do it again.”
“You will,” Caprino said coolly. “You’re frightened now, but it will pass. You’ll forget the fear and remember only the money that buys bread. You’re not usually this clumsy. You may not come this close to being caught for the next ten lifts.”
“I’ll find another way.” Sanchia’s hands clenched at her sides. “There has to be another way.”
“You didn’t think so when you came to me.” Caprino opened the door. “I have no more time for you. I have important business at Giulia’s. Stay here for another few minutes before you go back to Giovanni’s.” The door swung shut behind him.
He hadn’t given Sanchia her share of the purse, she realized dully. Trust Caprino to try to steal even the smallest purse, if given the opportunity. She would have to seek him out tomorrow and demand her portion. She had mouths to feed and Caprino was right about hunger being a sharp dagger that might goad even a saint into thieving.
But was hunger worth the risk of having her hands chopped off?
Fresh panic clutched at her as a chilling memory returned. Two months before she had seen a thief thrown out of Stinche Prison into the streets, his arms ending in bleeding stumps. Since then the fear of that punishment had lived with her during the day and invaded her dreams at night, She had tried and tried to think of another way to earn money to feed them, all the while fearing her frantic scheming would come to nought. There was no other way.
As there would be no other way the next time or the time after that. She would have to steal again just as Caprino had predicted. But he was wrong about the terror holding her in helpless thrall; it wasn’t a thing of the moment.
She knew the fear would never go away again.
“Good evening, noble messeres, I have the honor to present to you my greetings. I am Guido Caprino.” Caprino stood in the doorway and smiled ingratiatingly at the two men sitting at the polished table across the chamber. “The enchanting Madonna Giulia assured me I could be of some slight service to you.”
He carefully kept a bland expression on his face as he appraised the two men. The older had to be Lorenzo Vasaro, he decided. His high cheekbones and deepset eyes matched the description Giulia had given him of the man—and besides, Caprino’s own instincts responded to the shadowy aura of menace surrounding him. The man was lean, faultlessly elegant in his fashionably slashed black doublet, and clearly more dangerous than his companion. He gazed at the other man and felt a ripple of distaste. He was so male. Lionello Andreas might stand well over six feet, Caprino surmised, and he was too big-boned to lay claim to elegance no matter how richly he was garbed. Now, dressed only in gray hose and a loose white shirt, he appeared to be exactly what Caprino had expected: a barbarian warrior with more brawn than brains, he was not wearing a weapon, not even a dagger. Andreas might be the lord of Mandara, but Caprino would wager it was Vasaro who was the shrewd power behind the scenes there.
“Come in, Messer Caprino.” Andreas picked up the silver goblet on the table in front of him and waved it at a cushioned chair beside the window before raising it to his lips. “Be seated.”
The arrogant bastard hadn’t bothered to stand up to greet him properly, Caprino thought as he smiled politely and crossed the room to take the seat indicated. No doubt Andreas did not think him worthy of respect. He would soon learn differently.
Lorenzo Vasaro rose and moved with silent grace to lean against the wall to the left of the window. He folded his arms across his chest and gazed blandly at Caprino.
A good move. Caprino’s respect for Vasaro rose even higher. His action had placed Caprino between Vasaro and Andreas. Caprino was tempted to address Vasaro as the worthier of the two but turned instead to Andreas. “I am always overjoyed to accommodate any friends of Madonna Giulia. What is your pleasure?”
“I need a thief.” Andreas leaned back in his chair and studied Caprino with narrowed eyes.
Caprino met his eyes and continued to smile politely. “It will be my pleasure to provide you with the finest thief in all of Florence, Your Magnificence. Only a thief, or must he possess other talents? An assassin, perhaps? I have a few associates who have talents in that direction, but no one with the extraordinary skills of Messer Vasaro.”
Andreas stiffened. “You know of Vasaro?”
“How could I not?” Caprino remained sitting forward in his chair, one graceful hand resting with seeming casualness on the jeweled hilt of his dagger. “He shines in the firmament like a bright star, dazzling all who see him. Is it any wonder I should recognize him?”
“Not at all.” Andreas cast an amused glance at Vasaro, who was still gazing at Caprino with no expression. “Do you hear that, Lorenzo? A star, by all that’s holy. Aren’t you going to thank the kind gentleman?”
Lorenzo inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“No thanks are needed,” Caprino said quickly. “I merely gave homage where homage was due. It was foolish of me to suggest you might need an assassin when Messer Vasaro is in your service. Why should you need any—”
“As you say, I need no assassin,” Andreas interrupted with sudden impatience. “I need a thief with hands as swift and sure as an arrow drawn by a master bowman and a touch as delicate as the kiss of a butterfly.”
“There are many thieves in Florence,” Caprino said thoughtfully. “I myself have trained an honored few.”
“So I’ve been informed.” Andreas’s lips twisted in a cynical smile. “No doubt you’ve also tutored many individuals in my friend Lorenzo’s former profession.”
Caprino shrugged. “One or two. But to be an assassin requires a certain fortitude not found in every man. A thief is different. Easier. Not as profitable but …” He trailed off. “How long would you need this thief, my lord Andreas?”
Andreas went still. “You know me also?” His voice was dangerously soft. “Does my name, too, shine in the firmament?”
Caprino’s hand tightened on the hilt of his dagger. He could feel a bead of moisture dampen his temple as he realized his mistake. He had judged Vasaro to be the threat. A stupid error. In his experience most soldiers, even condottieri, had none of the skill and subtlety Caprino admired. But he shouldn’t have let his contempt for the profession overshadow his judgment of the man. No, that was not entirely true, Caprino admitted reluctantly. His instinctive revulsion at Andreas’s overpowering virility had also contributed to the blunder by keeping him from a serious study of the man. Now he discerned the intelligence, as well as cynicism, in Andreas’s brilliant dark eyes which were fully as merciless as those of Vasaro. Caprino moistened his lower lip with his tongue. “Your fame has spread over all Ita
“And who did pronounce my name to you?” Andreas asked silkily. “And on what subject? I asked Giulia to tell no one I was in Florence.”
“You know how careless women can be, Magnifico. When Madonna Giulia summoned me here, she mentioned your name but nothing else. I swear this, my lord Andreas. Would the Madonna have sent for me if I wasn’t a man of discretion and honor?”
“Lorenzo?” Andreas’s gaze never left Caprino’s face.
Vasaro’s voice was hoarse and scratchy as a wooden coffin pulled over flagstones. “He will betray you for a price high enough. Shall I dispose of him?” Lorenzo asked as casually as if he’d inquired about throwing out the dregs of the wine in Andreas’s cup.
Caprino leaned forward in his chair, prepared to spring, his dagger at the ready for a—
“I think not,” Andreas said. “He doesn’t know enough to hurt me, and I’d find it inconvenient to search out another procurer.”
“A wise decision.” Caprino’s grasp on his dagger relaxed. “A man should always keep the long view in mind. Now about this thief?”
“Just this moment I have thought of a quality he must possess,” Andreas said, looking down at his heavy leather gauntlets on the table. “I must own him.”
“Own?”
Andreas’s long, broad index finger rubbed at the brass riveting of the gauntlet. “He must be mine body and soul. I’ll not have him running back to you with tales you can sell to the highest bidder.” Andreas smiled. “Of course, I could have him removed after he finishes his task, but I dislike rewarding good work in that fashion. Not an intelligent way to proceed.”
“I can see that.” Caprino’s uneasy gaze darted to Vasaro. Rumor had it that Vasaro had accepted service with Andreas when the condottiere was a boy of seventeen. How had Andreas managed to hold such a skilled assassin all these years? Did he own him body and soul as he wished to own the thief? It was something to ponder, for who but Satan was capable of possessing a demon? “Such men aren’t easy to find. How could I—”