Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [108]
“From Milan to Venice. So my informant tells me. They clearly thought it worth their while to pay a certain price for your services?”
Claes studied his boots. “They thought it worthwhile because I had given them the wrong rates for Venice. In one of the letters I opened. It wasn’t in cipher.”
“You falsified a dispatch?” said the fat man.
Marian de Charetty’s face had lost colour again. She said, “You idiot, Claes. That’s the end of you.”
“But you won’t tell.” Claes reassured her, reviving. “And it’ll make a fine profit.”
“I won’t tell,” said Marian de Charetty. “But have you forgotten who he is?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Claes.
“I’m glad you haven’t,” said the fat man. He lifted a hand. “Come here, clod.”
Claes stirred. Then obediently he moved along the side of the desk and presented himself.
Jordan de Ribérac looked at him. He said, “You made a childish attempt on the life of my son. You failed to kill him. But you will try again, won’t you? Once you have money and a little authority, and people no longer laugh at you and fling you in the Steen. That is why you are suddenly ambitious?”
“Your son?” said Claes. “How would I kill him better with money?”
The fat man’s eyes never ceased watching. “You fought him,” he said.
“He fought me,” said Claes. “You’ve paid no attention to him before, that I’ve heard of. Why suddenly champion him now? You won’t change what’s wrong with him; it’s too late. You won’t change what’s wrong with me: you don’t even know what it is.”
“You underrate me,” said Jordan de Ribérac. “I could begin with your name.”
Marian de Charetty said, “He hasn’t harmed the Medici by anything that he’s done.”
The fat man looked at her. “Misreporting market rates to his advantage? Demoiselle, that is theft, and we all know how theft is punished. Does he know whose bastard he is?”
She flushed.
Claes said, “I know.”
“Yes,” said the fat man. “Whatever I think of my son, when someone lays a finger on a member of my family, I like to find out all I can about them. As I think I have shown you. So let us talk about bastardy. You know, you say. So you know about your poor, silly mother, who fornicated with servants?”
The crash from the table was the demoiselle’s fist. Claes looked at it, and her face. She was scarlet. She said, “M. le vicomte, you may leave.”
The fat man’s bright eyes surveyed her. “Why? The story is old news. None dispute it. You have no need to be disturbed, demoiselle. The boy is no blood of yours. His grandfather took your sister in second marriage. You are his great-aunt only by marriage, as the Geneva merchant Jaak de Fleury is his great-uncle. Did you enjoy visiting him, Claes?” said M. de Ribérac. “You did pass through Geneva?”
“I didn’t kill him either,” said Claes. “I disappointed his wife, but that’s another matter. I think you are disturbing the demoiselle.”
She didn’t look as if she thanked him for that. She was breathing quickly. She said, “The demoiselle is quite capable of having a gentleman escorted from her premises, if his language warrants it. Is that all your business, M. de Ribérac? To warn Claes not to injure your son? I have told you before, monseigneur, your son is a vindictive man.”
“You don’t like him,” said the fat man. He examined her.
She said, “He is handsome, and has many friends, I am sure. No, I don’t like him.”
“Neither does the lady Katelina van Borselen,” said the fat man. “You are right. He has been wrongly reared. And who is to put matters right but his father?” His mouth smiled and then, compressing its chins, became vertical. He gave a parody of a pout. “But I live in France, and whom can I trust to help me over here? Who will watch over Simon’s movements, report to me what he does, warn me if he becomes engaged in unseemly designs, or makes inappropriate attachments, or seems about to forget the family honour?”
He paused. He made a large gesture. “Who but a young informer already under threat of exposure? You, my dear Claes, will become, unknown to him, my son’s shadow. For the best of reasons, my personal spy. That