Thorn by Fred Saberhagen (reading like a writer TXT) 📕

      Thorn turned back to his host and asked him bluntly: “Is it being brought here today? I look forward to seeing it again.”

      “Here?” Seabright tried to sound surprised. “Why no, it isn’t being brought back here at all. I’m taking it to Santa Fe, to my own house.” He consulted his wristwatch. “In fact it’s en route right now, on my own plane. Most of this other stuff is going to follow in due course. I’m having another room built on. But I wanted the Verrocchio there right away.”

      Thorn stood up straight, no longer leaning on the wall. “Ah,” he said slowly. “Then I must hope to be able to see it there someday, in Santa Fe.” He had the feeling of just having been checkmated. But not by this great fool, surely, nor this preoccupied woman. He felt a certain bewilderment. His real opponent, it seemed, had not yet even come in sight.

      “Why not?” said Seabright, jovial and insincere. “If you’re ever there, give me a call. It’s been a real pleasure to converse with someone who knows what he’s talking about. Now what was this idea you had about the painting’s origin?”

      Mr. Thorn had nothing to say on that subject now. Anyway he would not have had much chance to talk. He could hear the sound of the elevator door opening, back in the lounge, followed by the agitated approach of one person, a young man, and worried, to judge by the sound of his busy feet.

      A figure to match the calculated image appeared, almost dancing through the white curve of the tunnel, garbed in white shirt and necktie, topped with a neat haircut. His face, that Thorn had never seen before, bore an expression eloquent of disaster. Thorn was conscious of calamity, like a compact cloud of darkness, hanging somewhere just above.

      “Mr. Seabright, sir? Santa Fe just called.”

      Seabright rounded on the perturbed aide, turning his broad back on Thorn. “Well, what? Spit it out.”

      For a moment the young man sputtered, as if trying to take the order literally. Then he managed speech. “The plane is almost three hours overdue now, sir. And they can’t contact Mr. Gliddon on radio.”

Chapter Six

      During the fifteenth century, for good and sufficient reasons, travel across most of Europe was considered hazardous. In one or two geographical areas this rule had happy exceptions, about which more presently. But in general one did not set out alone on a journey of any length, not if trustworthy or only moderately dubious traveling companions could be found. So before leaving Ancona, I attached myself to some Medici traders who were on their way home to Florence after successfully completing a mission in the south of Italy. Helen had last been reliably reported in the northern portion of the boot, and I could think of no better place than the City of Flowers, that nerve center of every type of communication, in which to try to pick up further news of her. As for the merchants, when they had looked at the letters of identification and introduction that had been given me by my king, they were glad to have my sword added to their escort. One crime of which I have never even been accused is brigandage. If my reputation had reached my fellow travelers’ ears, and if they recognized me despite the letters’ ambiguous treatment of my name, the recognition must have made them more rather than less eager to have me in their company.

      On the second day of our journey north from Ancona we encountered another party of honest merchants. They were southward bound, their wagons freighted with rolls of Florentine cloth. These men had from us their first word of the Pope’s death, and we received from them in turn some news that my companions considered at least equally momentous. It made the good merchants of my own party look at one another grimly, and issue orders to their servants to prepare for a forced march. Cosimo de’ Medici, head of the great mercantile family and the de facto ruler of the city-state of Florence, had gone to his own reward, in the manner of a stoic Christian by all reports, and just thirteen days before the passing of Pius in his lonely tent.

      My traveling companions were not really surprised by the death of their master Cosimo, who had been ailing for a long time. Their concern, as we remounted and pushed on, was over what might be happening now. What was the effect going to be on business? The southbound travelers had told us that in Florence it was considered certain that Cosimo’s middle-aged and eldest son Piero, called the Gouty, was going to take over his father’s position as head of the family. This meant that Piero would probably also become the untitled but practically unchallenged ruler of Florence. What effect this change on leadership was going to have on the city and on the world it was difficult to say, and at the same time imperative to find out as soon as possible.

      Being myself anxious to waste no time, I willingly went along with the forced march, and in a few days more had my first look at Florence. The city burst upon us as a splendid, nearby spectacle as we topped a hill. It was then one of the largest metropolises in Europe, enclosed by three miles of defensive wall, the high stonework of which was reinforced by sixty square towers. When seen as we saw it from the nearby hills, the city was truly impressive, its interior dotted thickly with church spires, with here and there the palaces of the wealthy rising amid acres of lesser construction. The Arno made a lopsided bisection of the city, and its waters, half mud, half rainbow, flowed out of it bearing all the colors of the Clothmakers’ Guild, as well as the sewage of seventy thousand