Sordello shrugged. "I could claim to be one of the finest trovatores in all Italy, but if I did, you would rightfully ask why I have to make my living as a hired man-at-arms. So I will say only that I am good enough that I wish I could spend all my time making poetry and singing."
A worthy wish, Daoud thought. Hearing his careful self-estimate, Daoud's respect for the man increased a bit.
"Then you will sing at the cardinal's table. Your suggestion is a good one. I will also arrange for you to be with Madonna Sophia at other times as well, so that you can honestly claim to know something about her."
"Very good, Messer David." Sordello turned to go, then turned back again. "Messere?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think you might send me on another trip to paradise sometime soon?" The eager light in his eyes sickened Daoud.
"Do your work well, and I will see that you are properly rewarded."
Sordello left, and Daoud brooded over his shame at what he had done to the man—turned him into something less than human, less than animal, a kind of demon with a single appetite.
After a moment he forced himself to put that out of his mind. A fighter in jihad, holy war, must do many an ugly thing, but all was for the greater glory of God.