Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [116]
Claes said, “Oudenin. I always said it. And Felix can marry his daughter. Colard, why did you wave to us?”
“What?” said Colard, who had picked up a sheet of vellum and become lost in it. He laid it down.
“You waved at us,” said Sersanders patiently.
“I waved at you,” said Colard. “Message. Your uncle wants you. And Claes too, if he has any letters. He’s at Giovanni Arnolfini’s.”
Claes said, “Colard. We’ve been here an hour. Two hours, maybe.”
“I don’t mind,” said Colard. “But there isn’t all that much light left, it’s quite true. Perhaps you’d better go.”
Sersanders said gravely, “Perhaps we’d better. Claes?”
Claes said, “Yes. I’ll come. Felix?”
“What?” said Felix, opening his eyes.
“What was that about your two sisters tomorrow? Your mother asked you to take them to the Carnival, didn’t she?”
“And I’m telling you to take them instead,” Felix said. He opened his eyes a little bit further. “You’re not going to pretend you can say no?”
“Felix!” said Sersanders. “That isn’t fair. And your mother wouldn’t like it anyway. That is –”
Felix said, “Then she’ll have to put up with it. There isn’t anyone else. Oudenin of course would be delighted, but he’s the last person, thank God, she’d apply to. There’s always Henninc; but even Claes, you will agree, is better than that. Despite the face. What brawl did you get into, anyway?”
“I was attacked by the porcupine,” said Claes with brevity. “All right, I’ll take the girls on one condition. That you tell your mother you’ve asked me, and get her agreement. Otherwise I’m going down with the plague.”
“You are the plague,” said Colard Mansion mildly. “Would you all mind getting out of my light?”
They parted outside, Felix with Bonkle in tow making belatedly for the unfortunate bowling alley of his choice. Claes, with Anselm Sersanders, set off west to the market, and then north to the consular house of the Lucchese in which dwelt the rich merchant Arnolfini who was entertaining Sersander’s uncle, the elegant Anselm Adorne.
It was not easy to hurry. The snow had stopped, and had turned to sepia mud under the swarming feet of the workmen delegated by the town and the Guilds to decorate the square, the hall, the belfry, the inner dock and all the houses around for which they had obligations, in preparation for the Shrove Tuesday Carnival on the morrow.
Ladders, sparsely escorted, trudged from road to road and flailed round corners. Carts full of paper lanterns jostled for place with wheelbarrows full of candles. Collapsible booths, meant to nourish by daylight the crowds gathered to witness the drawing of the lottery tickets, and by night the thronging crowds attending the Carnival, arrived, were erected, and collapsed. Officials with news attempted to traverse the town, as was their duty, and proclaim it. Who was bankrupt. Who was dead and who was to marry and who needed a wet-nurse. Interesting news, if you could hear it.
Men with flags hammered in nails for flags. Painters painted. Drays trawling kegs of wine and kegs of beer rumbled from tavern to tavern, drawn by horses like pumpkins, some already bearing a cocky plume over one eye. A file of bawling urchins followed a two-legged barrel which had once contained beer, but which now contained Poppe, a seller of unwashed Lenten ginger, parading the streets for his error.
Anselm threw him a kindly snowball in passing, which washed off some of the egg on his forehead, and he and Claes stopped to bestow one or two more on Witken the weaver, standing tied to a pole and decked in his own deficient wool, to remind him that weaving in frost was unlawful.
Both victims swore in response, without rancour. You dodged the law. You got caught. You put up with it. Next time it happened to Claikine, Poppe and Witken would take their cheerful revenge. With dung, maybe.
The Lucca house was in the same street as the house of Pierre Bladelin; past the Bourse, with all the