"Does he want to see you again?" David demanded.
She shrugged. "He did when I left him. But by now he and Cardinal de Verceuil will have talked together and may well realize my part in what we did to them."
"Well," said Ugolini, rubbing his hands together. "There will be no more need for you to pursue Count Simon, my dear, or for Messer Lorenzo to play backgammon with the French cardinal. And no need for our illustrious David to risk further verbal jousting with the Tartars."
Daoud felt a stab of exasperation. Just as he had feared, Ugolini wanted to believe that with last night's triumph over the Tartars, their work was done. Would he be able to persuade the cardinal to realize this was only the beginning of a long struggle—one in which he, Ugolini, must play the chief part?
"De Verceuil is a clever but sloppy player," Lorenzo interjected. "He kept leaving blots less than six points away from me. But I managed to lose eighty florins to him. That kept him interested. Once he decided I was not a skillful player, he kept doubling the stakes and pressing me to do the same when the choice was mine." He went over to Ugolini's work table and poured himself a cup of kaviyeh.
Ugolini laughed. "He must now think his winnings eighty costly florins indeed." He filled a cup from another pitcher, sprang up, and carried the cup across the room to Sophia.
"You will enjoy this spiced milk more than the Muslim kaviyeh. It is my favorite morning drink."
"You think it is all over, then, Cardinal?" Daoud growled. "I can go away and leave you in peace—and richer?"
From the suddenly outraged face Ugolini turned toward him, Daoud thought the cardinal might well be wishing the Filippeschi had finished him off.
"Was last night not a victory?" the cardinal asked in a choked voice.