“Focus!” the Reverend Mother said. “You’re daydreaming.”
“And you sound like the Doc sometimes.”
Sofia was recalling with amusement Giovanni’s notions of Fate’s plan for him. Guilt truly was the victor’s luxury. People came to Rasenna to commit sins, not atone for them.
Another dry, monotonous morning. She yearned to swing a banner in the workshop, but instead she dutifully marched to the chapel, where a new pitcher and glass were laid out. The nun’s eyes were closed, so instead of “contemplating” water she wouldn’t get to drink, Sofia studied the window.
This afternoon Our Lady of Chronic Dehydration didn’t look full of grace, she looked weary. At the end of a long day of housework, some winged coglione swans in to dump another chore on her. Thanks a lot. What did your last handmaid die of?
CRASH!
Sofia woke to the sound of breaking glass.
“Until tomorrow,” the Reverend Mother said serenely.
“Until tomorrow.” Vettori waved to the men passing the Lion, then turned back apprehensively.
Fabbro shook his head. “It won’t do.”
Vettori snapped the garment back and studied it. “Is it the cross-stitch? I can assure you—”
Fabbro chuckled. “It’s too fine! We can’t keep up this standard, surely.”
“Vanzetti have weaved for generations,” Vettori affirmed proudly. “Of course we can keep it up! The question is, can you sell it?”
“Sell it? Yes! And for more than those Frankish rags retail. You must explain how you make such vivid colors.”
“Pedro experimented with the dyes.”
“Inventive as ever, that boy. He’s recovered, then?”
“Yes, and with his help, I’ll finish the rest in a month.”
“If I send this example, they’ll trust us with a bigger order.”
“Slow down, Fabbro: for that, I’d have to make more looms, rent more space. I don’t have—”
“I have money, enough for that.”
“That’s not the only issue,” he said, and looked north. “An attic business smuggling in small loads can be kept secret, but—”
“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing big. So word gets out—”
Vettori crossed his arms starchily. “So word gets out—and what then, protection?”
“Feed the wolf, he’ll keep coming back.” Fabbro beat his belly like a drum as he thought it out. “And part of the service will be wrecking equipment and product on the ‘wrong’ side of the river.”
“Even if we ask them not to?”
“Nobles taking orders from the Small People? Vettori, the idea!”
After another day’s training, Sofia once more contemplated the window. That conceited angel was oblivious to Our Lady of Artful Subterfuge’s scheme.
The nun finished praying and began to stretch. Sofia’s hand shot out and grabbed—
—nothing. She hadn’t seen the nun move, yet—
CRASH!
That sound was becoming tediously familiar.
Next day, she affected indifference to the proceedings until the second the glass dropped. The nun caught Sofia’s hand in midair.
CRASH!
SMASH!
BASH!
tinkle. . .
As Fabbro walked Vettori home, he remarked how vulnerable he would have felt crossing Piazza Luna in the old days.
“I’ve been thinking about the thing,” Vettori interrupted. “Be honest, old friend. Will the Signoria really let us import and export without interfering?”
“Certainly not.”
Vettori took a deep breath. “Then I’m sorry. I can’t get involved. I’ve got my son to think of.”
“I’ve got seven!”
“You’re used to risk—how can I invest in equipment that’ll be destroyed to prove I need protection?”
“Vettori, all I know about business is if you don’t risk anything, you don’t get anything. It comes to this: If you let a man steal from you, he owns you, but pay him for what you want and you own him. Stay frightened and you’re a slave. Now, here we are!”
As Fabbro reached for the door handle, a snub-nosed dragon with its tail entwined around its neck, Vettori realized whose palazzo this was. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
Fabbro put a finger to his lips as the door opened. He slipped a coin to the servant, who led them through a courtyard of practicing bandieratori, their gold flags shimmering like windswept corn, and up the stairs at the back. Fabbro whispered, “Since the Wave, Rasenna’s only export is violence. And the Signoria has a monopoly.”
The door of the study opened to reveal Valentino Morello dictating a letter over his father’s shoulder. The gonfaloniere looked up eagerly, relieved to escape his son’s attention, if only momentarily.
Bowing neatly, Fabbro said, “Gonfaloniere, we need protection.”
“How serendipitous!” Quintus exclaimed. “No need to propose union when Bardini’s own people come to us, eh?”
Valentino looked them over coldly, saying nothing. Vettori doubted this wolf could be satisfied with scraps.