"Do you know the difference between winning a battle and winning a war?"
"What more can the French do?" said Ugolini.
"We must talk about that," said Daoud. "Even though, in spite of this good kaviyeh, my body screams for rest." He drained the cup, put it down, and stretched his arms. With difficulty he brought his anger under control. He must win Ugolini, not turn him into an enemy.
Ugolini had sat down in the high-backed chair behind his work table. His slender fingers restlessly polished the dome of the skull with the diagram painted on its cranium that lay before him. He looked as gloomy as if he were contemplating the day when he himself would be reduced to bones. Lorenzo quietly got up and poured himself another cup of kaviyeh.
Daoud turned to Sophia. "How do you think de Gobignon feels toward you?" He hated to ask the question. He watched her face closely. What he really wanted to know was how she felt about de Gobignon.
Her eyes were heavy-lidded. Even with Hashishiyya-trained senses, he could not guess what was behind that damnably unrevealing mask.
"I think I persuaded him that the cardinal's niece neither knows nor cares anything about alliances and crusades. I—believe he could come to love me."
Rage throbbed in his temples. What, in his sheltered existence, could the young count have learned of love?
"Love you? Unlikely," Daoud challenged her.
He saw with quick regret that he had hurt her feelings. She recoiled as if struck.