The Empire of Glass - Andy Lane [26]
Trying to distract his mind from thoughts of vomiting, Steven glanced around the tavern. Small groups of people were sitting around, beneath the nets and the oars, talking and sipping drinks.
Judging by what he could hear, many of them appeared to be English. One or two were dressed differently from the rest - less colourfully, in plain black cloth with white collars and large black hats.
He caught the eye of a young, bearded man standing in a group near the doorway. The man frowned, and Steven quickly looked away. The last thing he wanted to do was to attract attention to himself. The first thing he wanted to do was turn time back about eight hours, but unfortunately that wasn't possible. At least, not without the Doctor's help.
Steven realized with a sudden jolt that the young, bearded man and his friends were standing over him.
"Good morning," he said, with some effort, "can I help you?"
"It is we who can help you," the man snarled, "to an early grave."
His face was young and lean, but his eyes betrayed an inherent uncertainty that his swagger was meant to cover.
For a moment the words were meaningless, and Steven rolled them around in his mind until they slotted together to make some kind of sense. "Sorry?" he said. "I'm not sure I follow."
"My name is Antonio Nicolotti," the man said. "I am the elder brother of Baldassarre Nicolotti, whom you poisoned yesterday."
"I didn't poison anyone," Steven said. "Not yesterday, and not ever.
I've never even heard of you or your brother." His mind, lagging a few seconds behind his words, suddenly alerted him to the fact that he did know the name. Hadn't Galileo said something about a Baldassarre Nicolotti? Something about a bar, and a poisoned tankard of wine?
"You are Galileo Galilei," Antonio said firmly.
"No!" Steven protested, faintly discerning the potential shape of the next few minutes through the haze of his hangover. "I'm not Galileo!"
"It wasn't a question," the man said. "You meet his description, despite having shaved your beard off to avoid being recognized, and you're wearing his clothes. One would think," he added, turning to his friends, "that a noted natural philosopher would be able to think of a more convincing lie."
Steven looked down at his clothes, momentarily nonplussed to find that he was dressed in faded velvet breeches, a threadbare linen shirt and an embroidered jacket. A memory surfaced in the murky, stagnant canal of his thoughts: Galileo ridiculing his clothing some time after the third bottle of wine, and offering to lend him a more fitting costume.
Antonio's friends laughed dutifully as he turned back to Steven, hand reaching for the dagger at his side. "Make your peace with the God you deny," he snarled. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as Steven pushed his chair back and tried to stagger to his feet. As his horrified gaze wavered between the man's face and his dagger, he saw the dagger leave its sheath and...
And vanish. Antonio's hand groped vainly for the hilt, but it had disappeared. His face was almost comical in its confusion.
"Your sword should not play the orator for you," a gravely voice said in English, then switching to Italian it added, "Forgive me, but I have an aversion to brawls in taverns, and I find those that do more childish valorous than manly wise." Antonio whirled around.
Behind him, Steven caught sight of a man with a fine-boned face, a mane of grey hair and a scar running down one cheek. "Hand me back that dagger, cur!" Antonio snarled.
"Not until you learn some better manners," the man replied. His gaze quickly switched to Steven and he jerked his head slightly.
Never one to ignore a hint, Steven quietly began to back away from the group of people.
One of Antonio's companions