"My father," said Daoud, and a sob bubbled up in his throat as he softly spoke the word, albeit in the unfamiliar tongue of Italy. "How he must hate me and curse me for fighting for Islam."
Lorenzo halted his stride and lifted his head. Then he started walking again. He raised his hand and gripped the wrist Daoud was resting on his shoulder.
In a very low voice he said, "Someone is following us."
Now Daoud stopped, tensing. He called on the power of his mind to resist the wine. His tears dried on the instant.
"Walk on," said Lorenzo in a low voice. "Keep your arm over my shoulder. Keep talking to me." In a louder voice he said, "I do not believe people's souls go to a heaven of any sort."
"Can they hear us?" Daoud said softly. De Verceuil, he thought. He must have decided to have me killed. His body felt cold. His journey from Egypt and all his work, despite tonight's triumph, might end here on a rain-wet street. And what would happen to Sophia if he were killed?
"They cannot hear what we say. But careful, they might be able to tell from the tone of our voices whether we are aware of them. Can you fight?"
"Not well. Not well at all." The Scorpion, the small crossbow hidden in his cloak, he thought, might account for one or two of them, if he could see well enough to aim it. He blinked his eyes. He saw two moons hanging over the street, blinked again, and saw one.
"Do not Jews believe in an immortal soul?" he asked in a normal voice, keeping up the pretense of conversation.
He cursed his lack of foresight. Why had he not thought to arrange for some of their bravos to meet them and escort them back to Ugolini's palace? Because he did not want himself connected with the fighting men Lorenzo had brought to Orvieto. That it had been a sensible precaution did not ease his anguish now.