“Huh!” The Irishman shook his head and slid his dagger back into its sheath. “Have you got any more mundane refreshments to offer a guest?”
“I am remiss. You must excuse me. Extraordinary circumstances... but yes, there is a fair selection of wines in the cabinet by your right hand. Cups behind you.”
Duffy opened the cabinet and chose a bottle of sauternes, and deftly twisted the plug out of it.
“You know your wines,” Aurelianus said, as Duffy poured the golden wine into a cup.
The Irishman shrugged. “You don’t happen to own a boat, do you? I’ve got to get to San Giorgio, and three clowns sank the boat I had.”
“Yes, so I heard. What’s in San Giorgio?”
“My room. My things. It’s where I’m currently living.”
“Ah. No, I don’t have a boat. I have, though, a proposal.”
Duffy regarded Aurelianus skeptically. “Oh? Of what?”
“Of employment.” He smiled. “You are not, I imagine, as wealthy as you have been at times in the past.”
“Well, no,” Duffy admitted, “but these things come in waves. I’ve been rich and poor, and will doubtless be both again. But what did you have in mind?”
Aurelianus took a long puff on the popping, sizzling snake, and held the smoke in his lungs for a good ten seconds before letting it out. “Well—whoosh!—by your accent I’d judge you’ve spent a good deal of time in Austria.”
The Irishman looked annoyed, then shrugged and had another sip of the wine. “That’s true. I was living in Vienna until three years ago.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I beg your pardon; I don’t mean to pry. I don’t know why I have such difficulty in coming to the point.” He ran the thin fingers of one hand through his hair, and Duffy noticed that he was trembling. “Let me explain: I have become the owner of the Zimmermann Inn.”
Duffy raised his eyebrows politely. “Where’s that?”
Aurelianus looked surprised. “In Vienna,” he said. “Don’t you—oh, of course. You’ve been away for three years. Before I took over it was called the St. Joseph Monastery.”
“Oh yes. Where the Herzwesten beer comes from. You haven’t shut down the brewery, I trust?”
Aurelianus laughed softly. “Oh no.”
“Well, thank God for that.” Duffy drained his glass. “How in hell did you get the Church to sell the place?”
“Actually, I inherited it. A prior claim on the land. Very complicated. But let me continue—I’m now running the place as an inn, and not doing a bad business. Vienna is a good location, and the Herzwesten brewery has as good a reputation as the Weihenstepan in Bavaria. My problem, though, you see, is that I haven’t got—”
There was a hesitant rap-rap-rap at the door, and Aurelianus jumped. “Who is it?” he called in an agitated voice.
The answer came in a Greek dialect. “It’s Bella. Let me in, little lover.”
Aurelianus clenched his fists. “Come back later, Bella. I’ve a guest.”
“I don’t mind guests. I like guests.” The latch rattled.
The old man pressed a hand to his reddening forehead. “Go away, Bella,” he whispered, so quietly that Duffy barely heard it.
“Yoo hoo, guest!” came the raucous, liquor-blunted voice from beyond the door. “Tell the old juggler to let me in.”
Good Lord, Duffy thought; domestic embarrassments. Pretend not to notice. He crossed to the bookcase and began squinting at the Latin titles.
“I’ve got news,” Bella whined ingratiatingly. “Worth a ducat or two, I think you’ll agree.”
“News about what?” rasped Aurelianus.
“El Kanuni, as my dark-skinned friends say.”
“You’re a worthless trollop, Bella,” the old man sighed unhappily, “but come in.” He unlocked the door.
Preceded by an overpowering reek of stale perfume and grappa, a middle-aged woman in a somewhat sprung-at-the-seams skirt flounced into the room. “Give me some wine, for the Virgin’s sake!” she exclaimed, “lest I catch my death of the vapors.”
“For whose sake?” Aurelianus inquired savagely. “Forget the wine. Vapors would be a blessing, considering what you’ve got already.”
“Envy will rot your pale liver, little monk.” The woman grinned. Duffy, having at least rudimentary manners, made a show of being absorbed by the books to the exclusion of all else.
Aurelianus turned to him apologetically. “Will you, sir, be so good as to excuse us for a moment?” He was all but wringing his hands with embarrassment.
“Of course,” Duffy assured him with an airy wave. ‘I’ll divert myself with your excellent library.”
“Fine.” The robed man took the woman roughly by the arm and led her to the far corner of the room, where they proceeded to converse in heated whispers.
Duffy buried his nose in a book, but, being a cautious man, strained his ears to catch as much as he could. He heard Bella’s hoarse voice say, “The word is they’ve begun assembling the akinji in Constantinople...” Aurelianus asked a question about supplies and the Janissaries, but Duffy couldn’t follow the woman’s answer.
News of the Turks, the Irishman thought. It’s all you hear these days. I wonder why this old bird’s so interested.
“All right, all right,” Aurelianus said finally, flapping his hands at the woman. “Your personal speculations don’t interest me. Here... here’s some money. Now get out. But first put that dagger back.”
Bella sighed sadly and took a jewelled dagger out of the prodigious bosom of her dress. “I was only thinking a woman needs to be able to protect herself.”
“Hah!” The old man chuckled mirthlessly. “It’s the Turk sailors that need protection, you old vampire. Out!”
She left, slamming the door, and Aurelianus immediately lit several incense sticks in the candle flame and set them in little brass trays around the room. “I’d open a window,” he said, “but in very old towns you never know what might be flying past in the darkness.”
Duffy nodded uncertainly, and then held up the book he’d been leafing through. “I see you’re a student of swordplay.”
“What have you got there? Oh yes, Pietro Moncio’s book. Have you read it?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, it was Moncio and Achille Marozzo I was dining with this evening.”
The old man blinked. “Oh. Well, I haven’t used a sword myself for a number of years, but I do try to keep up with developments in the art. That copy of della Torre there, in the dark vellum, is very rare.”
“It is?” remarked the Irishman, walking back to the table and refilling his glass. “I’ll have to sell my copy, then. Might make some money. I wasn’t real impressed with the text.”
Long cobwebs of aromatic smoke were strung across the room, and Duffy fanned the air with a little portfolio of prints. “It’s getting murky in here,” he complained.
“You’re right,” the old man said. “I’m a damnable host. Perhaps if I open it a crack...” He walked to the window, stared out of it for a moment, and then turned back to Duffy with an apologetic smile. “No, I won’t open it. Let me explain quickly why I called you in, and then you can be on your way before the fumes begin seriously to annoy you. I’ve mentioned the Zimmermann Inn, of which I am the owner; it’s a popular establishment, but I travel constantly and, to be frank, there is often trouble with the customers that I can’t control even when I’m there. You know—a wandering friar will get into an argument with some follower of this Luther, a bundschuh leftover from the Peasants’ War will knife the Lutheran, and in no time at all the dining room’s a shambles and the serving girls are in tears. And these things cut into the profits in a big way—damages, nice customers scared off, tapsters harder to hire. I need a man who can be there all the time, who can speak to most customers in their native languages, and who can break up a deadly fight without killing anybody—as you did just now, with the Gritti boys by the canal.”