Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [94]
A hand gripped Tobie’s arm, and drew him aside. “Now,” said Tobie’s eminent uncle cordially in his ear, “do you not perceive the value of well-placed acquaintances? They have taken measure, in their own way, of the youth. I find him of interest. I congratulate you on your sponsorship. I have been able to tell Monna Laudomia that you, as my nephew, are the most reliable man they could find.”
“Could find for what?” said Tobie. “Sponsorship? I’ve nothing to do with Claes. What do they want him for?”
His uncle looked surprised. “His gifts,” he said. “You must know how much he was in demand when he left Bruges?” He paused. “And he really does know much more than he should do.”
Tobie thought of Quilico, and then decided that his uncle couldn’t possibly know about Quilico, who was so familiar with what grew by the Phocoea alum mines. And who was apt, in his cups, to talk about other, undiscovered alum mines to sick, cunning youths and their doctors. Then he realised that the professor might know all about Quilico if Claes had told him. But why would Claes tell him? “You will have to explain,” said Tobie carefully.
“Is this a physician who speaks?” said his uncle. “Diagnosis, my boy! You saw the cardplay. The youth absorbs languages, can manipulate numbers. What will such a man make of a private courier service?”
From pure relief, Tobie found himself smiling. So that was it. The courier service. He should have guessed as much. Tobie thought of the satchel Loppe carried everywhere on the journey, and the handsome letters with their threads and their seals. A person who carved intricate puzzles had a touch fine enough for a thief or a forger. And the cunning to disentangle other men’s writings. The men who created the ciphers in the ducal Chancery, in the Medici offices, were of this sort exactly.
Tobie said, smiling still, “They’re buying him off, or employing him? Or pretending to do both, while slipping something fatal into his winecup?”
“I expect they thought of that,” said his uncle mildly. “But not when they found he was a friend of my nephew. That was when they brought me in to advise them. I was, I am, happy to help.”
“A friend of mine?” Tobie said. “Thank you, but that lump is a dyer’s apprentice.”
“Well, you saved his life. Or so I’m told,” said his uncle. “And followed him to Milan. And showed an intelligent interest in a piece of information you picked up in Bruges. Or haven’t you even got the sense, turd, to realise what this is all about?”
The smile left Tobie’s face. He would never make assumptions again. They were not, after all, talking of nothing but a courier service. They were talking of alum, and they knew – even his uncle knew – a lot more than he did. And they were trying to implicate him. A profitable bargain with Claes was one thing. Being manipulated by the entire Acciajuoli clan (including possibly Claes) was another. Tobie said, “I see. Well, if they ask me, I’m having nothing to do with it.”
“Afraid?” said his uncle. “He’s not afraid, your young Niccolò.”
“He’s nothing to lose,” Tobie said.
“You have a point,” said his uncle. “But it hardly matters. You’re involved. You can’t get out anyway.”
“Allow me to differ,” said Tobie.
Tobie tried to leave twice after that, and was restrained twice by his uncle. Nobody asked him anything or offered him anything except food and drink and innocuous conversation, which maddened him further. Denied a chance to explain, rebut or refuse, he contented himself with ignoring Claes wherever possible. It was an outrage that, when he finally managed to get away, his uncle should foist Claes upon him. They were returning to the same inn, Giammatteo pointed out. It was safer, after dark, for his nephew and the young man to walk there together. Messer Agnolo would lend them both a lantern.
Claes carried the lantern. Fuming, Tobie walked down the stairs ahead of him and crossed the courtyard. Claes jiggled the lantern. Tobie’s shadow leapfrogged from pillar to pillar