The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  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 trattoria beneath 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?”

  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.

  “Yes, that’s where thieves belong.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “But I no longer have your purse, and if you imprison me, you’ll never get your gold back. They’ll just cut off my hands and—” She had to stop as terror dried her throat. The bloody vision danced before her eyes and it was a moment before she could continue, “If you let me go free, I’ll find a way to pay you back. I promise, my lord.”

  “The promise of a thief.”

  “I keep my word.”

  “A thief but not a liar?”

  “I do lie,” she said honestly. “Well … only when I must. Sometimes it’s better to lie than have bad things happen to people. But I don’t break my promises.”

  “Don’t hurt her,” Elizabet sobbed. “Please don’t hurt her.”

  “Stop weeping,” he said impatiently over his shoulder. “She’s the one who should be crying.”

  “Sanchia never cries,” Elizabet said.

  “Sanchia what?” He turned back to Sanchia. “What’s your full name?”

  “Just Sanchia.” She moistened her lips with her tongue. “I have no other.”

  He bowed mockingly. “Lionello Andreas, my illustrious lady thief. I think we’re destined to become very well acquainted. Stand up and let me look at you.”

  She scrambled to her feet, hugging her shawl close to her body to try to stop the shivering that attacked every limb.

  “Come here.”

  She took one hesitant step toward him, then another.

  “Stop.” He held up his hand and grimaced distastefully. “Do you never bathe?”

  “I bathe, my lord.” Her eyes were enormous in her thin face as she gazed up at hi
m. “Please, my lord, trust me. I’ll return the money.”

  “I trust only a very few people in this world and none of them is a thief.” His gaze ran over her. He scowled. “Dio, you’re scrawny as a starved cat. Does Ballano never feed you?”

  She stiffened. “You know Giovanni?”

  “I haven’t as yet had that pleasure. Where is he?”

  “He’ll be back soon,” Elizabet wailed. “Couldn’t you go before he returns?”

  “Elizabet …” Sanchia drew a deep breath and tried to subdue her impatience. “Why don’t you stand by the door and watch for Giovanni while I talk to his excellency?”

  “Yes, Sanchia.” Elizabet gave Andreas an uncertain glance and hurried from the room.

  “She has the brain of a chicken,” Lion said bluntly. “God, how I hate a whining woman.”

  “She’s only fourteen,” Sanchia said defensively. “And she’s not stupid. You frighten her.”

  Lion’s gaze narrowed on her face. “But not you?”

  She nodded. “Me, too.” She swallowed. “But being afraid won’t save me. As you indicated, weeping and wailing only make men angry.”

  “Has that been your experience?” he asked, his expression intent.

  “Men don’t like tears. It makes them impatient, just as it did you, my lord.” She stood very straight, gazing at him. “What can I do to keep you from taking me to prison?”

  “What would you do?” he asked curiously.

  “Anything,” she whispered. “I can’t leave them. They have no one but me.”

  “Who are ‘they’?” His words were abstracted as his gaze ran over her. By the saints, the woman truly looked the scrawny feline he had named her, he thought with a flash of unreasonable irritation. Sanchia appeared to be little older than the sobbing child across the room; she was as tiny and fine-boned as a kitten. Her triangular face was oddly catlike, too, with its high cheekbones, olive skin, and slightly slanted eyes. Those eyes were strange—gold-amber in color and utterly appealing, even filled with terror as they were now. Her chestnut-colored hair looked as if it had been carelessly chopped and hacked until it was even shorter than his page Nicolo’s. Now it was so rain dampened it clung in sodden curls about her thin face. “Who are you so concerned about?”

  “Piero and Bartolomeo and Eliza—”

  “He’s coming,” Elizabet cried frantically. “Sanchia, do something.”

  Sanchia paled. “Please go away. I beg you, my lord.”

  “You’re afraid of this Giovanni?”

  “Not for myself. He needs me, so he’ll probably only beat me. But if he becomes very angry, he may decide to send them all away and he mustn’t do that. I couldn’t—”

  “A thousand apologies for keeping you waiting, my lord.” It was Giovanni’s voice booming from the doorway. “How may I serve you?”

  Sanchia held her breath, her gaze clinging to Lion’s in desperation. She could detect no softening of his expression, only that strange, searching appraisal.

  Then Andreas abruptly turned away from her to face Giovanni. “Signor Ballano, I am Lionello Andreas, and I’ve come to make you an offer.”

  “A commission?” Giovanni brushed by Elizabet and entered the shop. “I copy by hand or print. My work is known throughout Florence.” Giovanni waved a hand at the printing press across the room. “It’s the best machine in all Italy and I—”

  “I want nothing copied,” Lion interrupted. “I need a servant, and I heard you have a slave that may meet my requirements.” He stepped aside and indicated Sanchia standing in shocked immobility behind him. “I’ll give you twenty-five ducats for her.”

  “Sanchia?” Giovanni’s bloodshot eyes widened in surprise. “You want to buy Sanchia?”

  “Why not? She’s young and appears strong and healthy. She has many years of service left in her. That’s why I’m willing to make so generous an offer. You should be able to replace her with no trouble.”

  “Twenty-five ducats,” Giovanni repeated. He shook his head, trying to comprehend. “For Sanchia?”

  “Is it a bargain?” Lion asked. “Do you have her papers?”

  “In my chest in the other room. A bill of sale for the mother and her.” Suddenly Giovanni’s bewildered expression was replaced by craftiness. “It’s not enough. How would I conduct my business? I’ve spent many years teaching her the skills of copying and running the press. Now you think to take her away from me for a mere twenty-five ducats?”

  Cristo, the man was as greedy as Caprino, Lion thought in disgust. “Twenty-five ducats is more than fair.”

  “For an ordinary slave, perhaps, but Sanchia is not only skilled, she has a talent.” Giovanni paused impressively. “She remembers everything. She has only to look at a leaf of script and she can recite it back to you.”

  “A pretty trick but of no value to me,” Lion said impatiently. “Will you sell her or not?”

  Giovanni was thinking quickly. “She’s young enough to bear you children. That should be worth something.”

  “I’m not buying her to occupy my bed. She’s hardly appetizing enough to interest me in that fashion.”

  Giovanni looked at Sanchia and reluctantly agreed. “True, but a woman is a woman when a man’s blood runs hot. Perhaps you could—”

  “I’m weary of this haggling.” Lion reached in his belt and drew out his purse. “Fifty ducats. No more. Agreed?”

  Giovanni’s gaze fastened hungrily on the purse. “It’s still too little. She works hard and …” He stopped as his glance met Lion’s and took an involuntary step back. “Agreed, my lord.”

  “No!” Sanchia had been enveloped in a nightmare of shock and bewilderment, unable to believe this was happening until Giovanni’s final words of assent jarred her from her stupor. She rushed toward Giovanni. “You can’t do this. I can’t go—”

  “Quiet! Do you know how long it would take me to earn fifty ducats?”

  “I won’t leave them.” She clutched at his arm. “You can’t do this. How will they—”

  She broke off as Giovanni’s hand cracked against her cheek and sent her reeling away from him.

  “Sanchia.” Elizabet started toward her, tears running down her cheeks. “Oh, Sanchia.”

  Giovanni turned swiftly back to Lion. “She’s not usually so unruly. A good beating now and then keeps her in order.”

  Lion’s face hardened as he gazed at the livid mark appearing on Sanchia’s cheek. “Don’t touch her again. She’s mine now and I’ll discipline her as I see fit.”

  “I won’t go with him.” Sanchia’s eyes were suddenly blazing. “This is wrong. I’ve served you well, you stupid fool.”

  Giovanni took three steps toward her. “Be silent or I’ll—”

  “Don’t touch her.” Lion’s voice held steely menace. “Or by the saints, you’ll regret it, Ballano.”

  Giovanni stopped and took a deep breath. “She’ll be more obedient when she’s away from those three strays. I should never have let her persuade me to take them in.”

  “They cost you nothing.” Sanchia’s voice was fierce. “I saw that they were fed. I took care of them.”

  “Sanchia, don’t,” Elizabet whispered.

  “Why not?” Sanchia’s eyes glittered with a recklessness born of desperation. “What can he do to me that he hasn’t already done? He’s a greedy fool who cares for nothing but his vino.”

  “Her papers and a bill of sale,” Lion said quickly. The terrified kitten had suddenly grown claws, he noticed with exasperation. In another minute she would have Ballano so enraged he would refuse to sell her just to have the pleasure of beating her senseless. “I have no more time.”

  Giovanni cast a furious glance at Sanchia, then strode over to the scribe table and scrawled a few lines on the parchment lying on it. “There’s your bill of sale. She’s yours now.” He turned and strode to the door leading to his quarters. “I’ll get her papers from my chest.”

  Elizabet was weeping softly, and Sanchia instinc
tively turned to comfort her. “It will be all right. I’ll find a way to take care of you.”

  “But Sanchia, what can you do?”

  Lion studied Sanchia. The fury illuminating Sanchia’s face was suddenly gone, and it gave him food for thought. If he had allowed her defiance of Ballano to continue, the sale might well have fallen through. Had the girl’s anger only been a pretense directed toward that aim? “Yes, Sanchia, what can you do?” he ask silkily. “I’m beginning to wonder who was the slave all these years you’ve been with Ballano.”

  She turned to look at him. “There was no question who was the slave,” she said bitterly.

  “But you don’t deny you were pretending anger just now to get what you wanted.”

  She shook her head. “No pretense. I was angry, but I wouldn’t have let it run free if I hadn’t thought it might keep Giovanni from selling me.”

  “A dangerous device. He might have hurt you badly.”

  “I would have healed. He wouldn’t have killed me while I still have value to him. He’s a fool, not a madman.”

  “You appear to know him well. But you don’t know me at all. I’m not a fool, Sanchia.”

  Sanchia shivered. “I did not think you a fool. I wouldn’t make that mistake.”

  “Here it is.” Giovanni hurried toward them, a frayed leather folder in his hands. He handed the folder to Lion and received the purse of ducats in return. “I bought them both from a Spaniard who assured me they came of good strong stock. You’ve made a fine purchase.”

  “An interesting one at any rate.” Lion was abruptly filled with disgust and an overwhelming urgency to be done with the man. “Go get your things, Sanchia. We’re leaving this place.”

  Giovanni said quickly, “There’s nothing for her to get. Slaves don’t have possessions, my lord.”

  Sanchia lifted shaking fingers to her throbbing temple, trying to think. “I can’t leave yet. There’s Elizabet.”

  Giovanni’s gaze shifted to Elizabet. “Elizabet is no longer your concern. However, I may be able to use her. She keeps the shop clean and I’ll need someone to—”

  “No,” Sanchia said flatly. “She isn’t going to stay here.”