The Grand Cham. Harold Lamb

whose featherless cap was thrust well back, disclosing black curls a little gray about the brows. Under the curls gray eyes, alight and whimsical, met the stranger’s stare.

      “You ponder, signor,” prompted Michael politely. “Perhaps it surprises you that I who bore no weapon on shipboard have now mastered the use of blade and poniard with my one hand. Or perchance your sense of honor and the high courage you display in a crisis prompt you to refrain from matching daggers with a man in a leathern shirt when you wear a mail jerkin.”

      At this an exclamation sounded behind him. Michael had not failed to glance over his shoulder at the first appearance of the light and had seen only a fox-faced merchant in a long ermine cloak and attended by a brace of servitors who looked as if they would have liked to flee at sight of bare steel.

      Now he perceived that the merchant was staring at him round-eyed as if Michael had uttered blasphemy or madness.

      “By the rood!” swore the tall stranger.

      “By whatever you wish,” assented Michael, “so long as you fight like a man. Come, the sight of a coward spoils my appetite for dinner.”

      HE WAITED for the other’s rush. Michael had recognized in his assailant the Italian captain of mercenaries who had struck down his wounded countrymen in the effort to force himself aboard Michael’s galley at Nicopolis. The other must have recognized him from the gondola and had sought the revenge he had sworn for Michael’s blow.

      Instead of resuming the duel, the Italian smiled coldly and stepped back, pointing to his chest where the doublet was slashed over the mail.

      “I do not fight with cutthroats, Messer Soranzi,” the Italian said to the merchant, who was staring at them, excusing his action. “This sailor beset me on the bridge after hailing my gondola under pretext of asking his way. You can see where he struck me.”

      The shrewd eyes of the merchant went from one to the other and he fingered his own stout belly tenderly.

      “A lie,” remarked the Breton promptly, “and a base one, forsooth. This fellow’s blade is snapped and you can see on the stones behind me where it broke off.”

      Soranzi stared at him curiously and uneasily.

      “You must be mad, good sir,” he observed, “to wish to encounter further Pietro Rudolfo, the famous swordsman and condottiere.”

      “Faith,” grinned Michael. “Is it madness to face the famous Rudolfo, instead of waiting to receive his knife in your back?”

      He marked in his memory the name of his enemy. Rudolfo in spite of the open insult did not renew the fight. Instead he muttered that he had no time for night prowlers when he had already been delayed too long on his way to the house of a friend.

      The merchant was sidling past Michael, holding up his long skirts, and shot a sharp question at the Breton, once he had gained the Italian’s side, accompanied by his men.

      “Your name and state, signor?”

      Michael nodded at Rudolfo to indicate that the condottiere knew both but Rudolfo was silent.

      “You have an excellent memory, Ser Pietro,” the Breton commented, “for it impelled you to let out my blood. Yet must I salve it myself.”

      To Soranzi he said—

      “I am called Michael Bearn, the master-mariner.”

      At this the merchant glanced at Rudolfo in some surprise for it was known from the Rialto to Saint Mark’s that the young Breton had been honored that day by the all-powerful council. The interests of Venice and its merchants lay upon the sea and the dictates of the Maritime Council were law.

      Moreover Michael’s bearing was hardly that of a cutthroat. Soranzi murmured diplomatically:

      “Now that you two worthy captains have reached an understanding it behooves me to press upon my way. I am in haste to hear a most wonderful tale of a voyager who has found a new road to the riches of the East, more vast than those narrated by Ser Marco Polo himself.”

      Michael bowed, realizing that Rudolfo would not fight now.

      “Will you direct me,” he asked, “to the fête of my lord Contarini, the leader of the great council? I have lost my way.”

      Soranzi’s lips parted to respond, but Rudolfo nudged him.

      “Follow this alley,” the condottiere directed curtly, “in the direction Messer Soranzi came for some distance.”

      With that he turned on his heel, took the arm of Soranzi and with a backward glance walked away across the bridge. The lanthorn was soon lost to sight around a bend in a street where Michael had been wandering.

      Sheathing his dagger, the Breton listened to the retreating footsteps, and laughed heartily but silently in the darkness.

      “ ’Tis a rare jest,” he thought. “Soranzi perchance would have directed me aright, but the excellent Rudolfo saw fit to send me mum-chance in the wrong course. Aye, make no doubt they are bound to the Palazzo Contarini themselves.”

      The reflection that Rudolfo had been at pains to keep him away from the fête caused Michael wonder whether the condottiere had not had a stronger motive than the desire for revenge in attacking him. Rudolfo had known from Michael’s own words that he was bound for the Contarini Palace.

      Of course it would not be particularly pleasing to Rudolfo to have Michael appear at the palace where they would, perhaps, meet. But surely if the captain of mercenaries had merely wished the killing of Michael his wish could better have been fulfilled by sending bravi after the Breton when the latter left the palace.

      Michael felt sure that Rudolfo had good reason for wanting at some cost to keep him from the palace.

      By now Michael was conscious again that he was very hungry. Opposition served to whet his desire to go to the fête. Following the retreating footsteps by ear, he passed over the bridge again, into a dark passage he had not noticed before that led him presently out upon a wide terrace overlooking a brightly lighted court.