He is trying to frighten me, Simon thought, and was angered. He held his arm still, but he knew that if his sword had been buckled at his side, nothing could have stopped him from reaching for it.
Simon looked the broad-shouldered man up and down, taking his measure. David, half a head shorter than Simon, stood relaxed but imposing, his hands hanging at his sides. That a man could appear at once so composed and so challenging was unique.
This man is no trader. It is not just an accident that he has come here to speak against the alliance.
Who and what is he—really?
Simon drew in a deep breath and said in gruff Italian, "Let me pass, Messere."
Slowly, almost insolently, David drew aside. "Forgive me, Your Signory. I was studying your face." He spoke Italian with a strange accent. "I thought I might have seen you a long time ago. But that is not possible, because a long time ago you would have been a child."
What does that mean? Is he trying to remind me that I am younger than he is?
"I am sure we have never met, Messere," Simon said coldly.
"Quite right, Your Signory," said David. "But no doubt we will meet again."
Simon walked past the man from Trebizond. His back felt terribly exposed, and he held his shoulders rigidly. He felt the enmity from behind him as sharp as a dagger's point.