So it is David of Trebizond who is bringing bravos into the city. What for?
Out on the street, Simon looked at the spot where the crossbowmen had spilled two men's blood. He felt a weary anger. Two lives cut off because of that fool de Verceuil and his vanity.
Where the men had been shot there now stood rows of bowls and pots, from small to large. They were painted white, with pretty floral designs in red, blue, and green. A woman sat on the ground beside the display, painting a freshly baked jug. She looked up at Simon, then scrambled to her feet and stood, bowing deeply.
"Fine vases and plates, Your Signory? The earthenware of Orvieto is the most beautiful in the world."
Simon smiled. "No doubt, but not today, thank you." He must remember to bring some samples back to Gobignon, though, he thought. It was fine-looking ware, and it might give the potters of Gobignon-la-Ville some good ideas.
He turned and stared back at the mansion, a great cream-colored cube of the same tufa as the rock on which Orvieto stood.
From that rooftop, David of Trebizond had watched the heckling, the throwing of garbage and dung, the sudden killings.
Simon almost expected to see David appear on the roof now, but it remained empty. The cardinal's mansion remained flat and featureless, revealing nothing.