o the
chamberlains, and they bowed and left, carrying armloads of scrolls.
Seeing Manfred at work, Daoud felt a powerfully protective impulse
toward him. Manfred was not _his_ king, but he had become a worthy ally,
and Daoud was prepared to fight Manfred's enemies. To die, if need be,
fighting them.

"An old friend of yours wants to greet you, David," said Manfred, his
bright smile flashing.

Daoud saw no one. In a candlelit alcove behind Manfred hung a painting
of a red-bearded man in mail armor partly covered by a black and gold
surcoat. It was not painted on the wall, but seemed to be on a separate
piece of wood with a gilded border, which was hung on the wall. The man
looked a bit like Manfred, and Daoud suspected it must be his father,
the famous Emperor Frederic. There was an idolatrous look about the
painting and the way it was displayed that made Daoud uneasy. It
reminded him a bit of the saint's image Sophia had kept in her room at
Orvieto.

"David of Trebizond!" came a cry from beside Manfred. Manfred reached
down and helped a bent, monkeylike figure scramble up to stand on the
table.

"God blesses our meeting, Daoud ibn Abdallah--this time," said the dwarf
Erculio.

He grinned at Daoud through his spiky black mustache. At the sight of
him Daoud winced at the memory of all the pain this little man had
inflicted on him. He still felt some of that pain, especially in his
feet, despite the tawidh's hastening of the healing process. But Daoud
also felt a sudden warmth that reminded him of the first time he had
seen the little man, here at Lucera. Deformed in body and soul, required
to do unspeakable things, Erculio had still found a way to serve God.

"If my lord Daoud wishes to kill me, I am at his service," said Erculio
in Arabic. "I have finished the work our sultan sent me to do in Italy."

Daoud found himself smiling in spite of himself. "You would have saved
me from a mutilation worse than death, Erculio. I cannot hate you for
that. You did your work well."

Erculio looked like a spider when he bowed, his head touching the
tabletop, his elbows bent upward. "I am my lord's slave."

He was the more admirable, Daoud thought, because despite being so
deformed, he had found important work to do in the world.

"How is your former master, d'Ucello, faring with the Sienese in
Orvieto?" he asked Erculio.

Erculio spread his hands wide. "Alas! The podesta is dead."

"Dead?" It was hard to believe. Daou