Daoud put his fingertips together and casually crossed his legs, lounging back in the throne, letting the contrast between his position and Sordello's sink in. He prayed that the man might succumb. His soul must be made of sand; how could it be otherwise?
The ring slowly rotated. Sordello twisted his head to look over his shoulder at Daoud.
"If you kill me, he will know." There was the faintest quiver in his voice.
Daoud chose not to ask the obvious question—who "he" was—but said, keeping his voice soft and kindly, "What will he learn from your death, Sordello?"
Before Sordello could answer, Lorenzo burst out, "We are not going to kill him for a long while, are we, Messer David? You promised me I could have some sport."
"Quiet, Giancarlo," said Daoud, narrowing his eyes. "You shall have your sport."
"Why torture me? Why kill me?" There was a plea in Sordello's voice now. "I have told nothing that could hurt you."
"You have told us nothing, Sordello." Daoud stood up. The platform on which the throne chair stood gave him impressive height, and the torches high in the wall behind him threw his shadow across the room.
"I admire your fidelity to your master, whoever he is," Daoud said with a smile. "What a pity he will never know about it. As I told you, this is hell, and you are dead already. You will just vanish, like a bit of rubbish washed out of the city by the rain. Your master will probably think you deserted him, as your sort of wandering ladrone so often does."
"I am not a highwayman!" Sordello's cry echoed against the stone vault. "I am a man of honor. I am an educated man, a trovatore."