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By Root 2865 0

Nicholas, pausing beside the open crate full of exotic cloth; staring at the laced bundle of drawings; the jar of pens; the crock of brushes; the wall hung with shears and ball-peen hammers and saws and the one stacked with ladders, easels, scaffolding, and upright sheaves of primed panels. There were shelves of marble busts and clay models, bronze figurines and partly made limbs, and in the depths of the room a mirror doubled the light. The place was empty because of the holiday, but someone had left exposed on a table a pad of parchment glued on a board, with a straight edge and some lead lying on it. Someone else had overturned a basket of charcoal sticks, and the black and tender willow turned to powder under le Grant’s feet until Nicholas knelt in his shirtsleeves and slowly began to gather them up. The sculptor said, “Stay there.” Nicholas paused and looked up.

“The Maestro’s fee for use of his head,” said John le Grant. “He wants to draw you. While he does, we can talk. Can he drink?”

“No!” said the sculptor. “On one knee, with the hand raised. Just so. John, the chalk. Ghiberti! Brunelleschi! No. He will not move, nor will he drink until I have done. And take his shirt off. Have I said something amusing?”

“Yes,” said Father Godscalc. “We had a disagreement, the other day, over costume.”

He pulled off the new model’s shirt and hung it over the lionskin. Nicholas looked resigned, but not especially embarrassed. His premarital prowess in Bruges meant, one assumed, that he was well aware of his own physical presence.

Godscalc sat down, and accepted the steaming cup that le Grant handed him. Le Grant said, “Pay no attention to the Maestro. He and Brunelleschi and Ghiberti all worked on the siege plans for Lucca together. They understand one another. Michelozzo as well. They were planning to divert a river and flood the place. From, of course, quite the wrong angle.”

“What!” said the sculptor. He stopped drawing. “Herring! Farting underground animal!”

“Don’t stop. Tell me where the plan is, and I’ll put it on the floor and see if Nicholas can sort out the error.”

In what followed, Godscalc took no part. The argument moved from siege fortifications to gunnery, and from there to ships. John le Grant refilled the cups. The master drew. They discussed the weaknesses of the lateen rudder system and the rigging of triremes. Outside, the rain stopped, and began again. The sculptor held his pad at arm’s length and said, “That’s all right.”

“You can move,” said John le Grant.

“No, I can’t,” Nicholas said. “If you have a hook on the wall, you could hang me on it. When did you leave Aberdeen?”

“A long time ago,” said the engineer. He found a beaker and filled it, while Nicholas was rubbing his back. “I used to import salt, and sail fish to Sluys, and one thing led to another. You’re going to Trebizond? Why?”

Nicholas took the beaker and, sitting, drained it rhythmically. He said, “It seems a good idea. To set up a branch—”

“I know about that,” said John le Grant. “Personally, why?”

“Personally to set up a branch,” Nicholas said.

The sculptor snorted. “With John, you’ll have to do better than that. Scotsmen like to know where they are. Sheep excrement. Players on bladders.”

Godscalc saw Nicholas pause, and tried to guess what he would do. Ever since John le Grant had been mentioned, he supposed that Nicholas had been watching out for the engineer. At the float, he must have recognised the sculptor at once and, remembering the Martelli connection, had thought le Grant might be there. And, with diabolical art, had coaxed him out of cover and set himself to attract him.

He had succeeded. He would get his sailing-master—there was little doubt about that. Unless, of course, he gave the wrong answer now. John le Grant had fixed Nicholas with a stare. He had pale eyes and red brows and freckles, and dry, youngish skin bitten in lines. He said, “If I’m to work with a bairn, I want to know the strength of his will to succeed. And I want to know what he’ll do if he botches it. You got too big for Bruges?”

Nicholas said, “No.