The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds by Iris Johansen
“You don’t seem to understand, my enchanting Sanchia,” Caprino said mildly. “You have no choice. You will go to the piazza and relieve the gentleman of his purse. Then you’ll bring the purse to me and I’ll see that you’re suitably rewarded. You will do this or you will never lift another purse in Florence ever again.”
“Why me?” Sanchia asked fiercely. “I told you earlier today that I didn’t want—”
“This is a special task.”
“It’s too soon. I can’t—” She broke off as she realized her voice was rising. She cast an anxious glance at the door of the shop set in the alcove behind her. Giovanni mustn’t know she was out here with Caprino. It was only because Giovanni had started on his third jug of wine of the evening and was unlikely to notice her absence that she had dared to slip out when Caprino had appeared a few minutes before. “You know I can’t leave the shop in the middle of the day. Giovanni will ask questions.”
“And you will lie.” Caprino shrugged. “It’s not as if you haven’t lied to him before.”
“Not often.” Lies were sometimes necessary to survive, but Sanchia had found that an occasional lie surrounded by the truth was much more likely to be believed. “And not unless it was important.”
“But this is important. It was you who came to me three years ago and asked to be trained. Out of the goodness of my heart I made you one of the finest thieves in all of Florence and what did I ask in return? Nothing.”
“Two thirds of every purse I stole is far from nothing.”
“I could have asked for all but a few ducats.”
And gotten it, Sanchia thought wearily. She would have had no choice but to give in to his demands. Caprino got his share or there were no thefts, whoring, or killings in Florence. “I’ve never tried to cheat you of your share, Caprino.”
“I know. Such a virtuous child. It warms my heart.” He took a step closer. “How are your three little friends? I hear Bartolomeo is becoming quite as skilled as you as Giovanni’s helper in the shop. How old is he now?”
“Ten,” she said warily.
“And Elizabet? I saw her a few days ago. Such a lovely maid, all golden hair and soft pale skin. She must be fifteen by now.”
Sanchia stiffened. “Fourteen.”
“Old enough,” Caprino said. “When are you going to send her to me? There are easier ways for a pretty pullet to make her way in the world than the one you’ve chosen for her.”
Sanchia’s initial surge of panic was quickly washed away by anger. “Stay away from her, Caprino.”
“Ah, now that’s what I like to see. A little fire.” He studied Sanchia objectively. “You’re really not bad-looking. A little color in your cheeks and a few pounds on those skinny bones, and I might be able to use you too.” He brought his lace-trimmed kerchief to his nose with a moue of distaste. “After a dozen scented baths and a thorough perfuming.”
“You do use me.” Her lashes lowered to veil her eyes. “I steal for you.”
“Only enough to feed that brood you hold so dear.”
“It will have to satisfy you.”
“But I’m never satisfied. I’m a very greedy man. Haven’t you realized that yet, Sanchia?” He smiled faintly. “Give me Elizabet and I’ll share the ducats I get for her. I might even be able to persuade Giulia Marzo to take her. Your Elizabet could become the courtesan of a rich and powerful lord. Fine food, pretty gowns—”
“No!” Sanchia saw the frown forming on Caprino’s face and instantly began to placate him. “Not yet. Perhaps in another year.”
“Why not now?” Caprino’s voice lowered to a silky threat. “I’m desolate you’re not returning the kindness I’ve shown to you. Ingratitude make me very unhappy. First you refuse to do me a small favor in the piazza tomorrow, and now you’re hoarding that sweet child from me and telling me—”
“I’ll steal the purse,” Sanchia interrupted. Then, as she saw the flicker of satisfaction on Caprino’s face, she realized with frustration that he’d gotten exactly what he wanted from her. He had used the threat to Elizabet to force Sanchia to steal again. Why had she expected anything else? Caprino always got what he wanted through guile or cunning or force. Still, it had been only a threat this time, she thought with relief. “Why do you want that particular purse? If I see an easier—” She stopped.
Caprino was shaking his head. “It has to be the man I point out to you. And why I want it is no concern of yours.” He turned to go. “The piazza at two. Don’t be late.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “If I don’t get that purse, I’ll have to seek … compensation. You understand, Sanchia?”
“I understand.” A shiver ran through her as she met his gaze. “You’ll have your purse.”
“Good. Such a sweet child.” A moment later he had faded into the darkness, and the breath Sanchia had not realized she had been holding came out in a rush.
Dio, she had been frightened. She had known it was only a matter of time until Caprino realized Elizabet’s potential value to him. Nothing and no one escaped Caprino’s notice for long if it meant money flowing into his purse, but perhaps she had staved him off for a little while.
She stood gazing at the darkness into which Caprino had disappeared. Something would have to be done soon about Elizabet, who was becoming too comely for Sanchia to protect. She had caught Giovanni gazing often at Elizabet of late. His eyes held the same lust he had had for Sanchia’s mother. Soon he would attempt Elizabet, if Caprino hadn’t already forced the girl into one of his brothels. One solution to Elizabet’s problem had occurred to Sanchia, but it would take more ducats than she could manage to salvage from her share of the purses she snatched for Caprino. Perhaps if she could find a way to get away from the shop more often—
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.
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 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 aw
“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 beggarmaid 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.”