"Nothing, yet," Faust said.

"What do you mean, nothing? Didn't you tell him who you are?"

"Of course."

"Then why don't you simply take over?"

Faust stopped and looked at her. "It's not so simple. I need to talk to Mephistopheles first, and I haven't found him yet."

He turned to walk again, and found three soldiers in steel caps bearing pikes standing and looking at him.

"Hey, you!" said one of the soldiers.

"Me?" Faust said.

"There's nobody else here except her, and I'm not talking to her."

"What are you doing here?" the soldier asked.

"None of your business," Faust said. "What makes it your concern?"

"We've been told to keep an eye open for fellows like you, skulking around the tents without anything to do. You'd better come with us."

Faust saw that he had spoken without thinking. Hasty grandiloquence was a fault of the Faustian character that Mack didn't seem to share. He would have to watch that. For now, he would talk nicely.

"Gentlemen, I can explain everything."

"Tell it to the captain of the guard," the soldier said. "Now come along quietly or we'll let you feel the end of a pike."

And with that they led Faust and Marguerite away.

So what's new?" Mack asked, as soon as Faust and Marguerite had departed.

"Great news, lord," Wasyl said. "The doge Henry Dandolo himself wishes to see you immediately."

"Ah, indeed?" Mack said. "Do you know what he wants?"

"He didn't confide in me," Wasyl said. "But I have my suspicions."

"Share them with me, good servant, while I wash my face and comb my hair." He proceeded to do those things, and to wish that Mephistopheles and the witches had remembered to supply him with a change of linen. "What is Henry Dandolo like?"

"He is a fearsome old man," Wasyl said. "As doge of Venice, he is commander of one of the most powerful and well-disciplined fighting forces in all Christendom. We Crusaders are dependent on the Venetians for our transport and general stores, and they do not fail to remind us of it. Dandolo himself is blind and somewhat frail of body, being now in his nineties. He's at an age when most noblemen would be content to lie at ease in their country estates and have servants bring them sweetened gruel. Not Henry Dandolo! He has ridden all the way from Europe, and was seen in the battle lines at Szabo, where he demanded the Crusaders reduce that proud Hungarian city if they wished to secure Venice's cooperation in this Crusade. And so they did, but with much grumbling, because what began as a holy enterprise has been perverted into just another Venetian commercial venture. Or so some people say. I myself have no opinion on the matter until I hear your own."

"Wise of you," Mack said, running his fingers through his hair.

"Your opportunities in this meeting," Wasyl said, "are manifold."

"An alliance of your interests with those of Venice could bring you wealth undreamed-of. And of course there is the other alternative."

"What's this?" asked Mack. For Wasyl had taken out his dagger, tested its point on the ball of his thumb, and put the weapon down gently on the table.

"That, my lord, is an instrument of good Toledo steel that you might find useful if your interests are not aligned with those of Venice."

Mack also tested the dagger's point on the ball of his thumb, for that was the customary thing you did with weapons in those times. He slipped the weapon into his sleeve, commenting, "This may come in useful if I need to make a point." Wasyl smiled obligingly.

Wasyl had commandeered two soldiers with torches. They went ahead and lit the way for Mack. Wasyl offered to go along, but Mack, realizing it was time he got down to business, declined the offer. It was prudent to work alone at this point, because he couldn't tell when Wasyl might realize that his interests didn't coincide with Mack's at all.

And so he started out. As he walked, he noticed that there was considerable commotion in the camp.

Groups of soldiers were running here and there, and mailed horsemen rode past at a gallop. Many campfires were lit, and there was an atmosphere as of some great enterprise.

The doge's tent was a grand pavilion made of a white silken cloth through which lamplight gleamed. The doge himself was seated on a little chair before a table. There was a tray before him, and on that tray was a quantity of precious gems, unset. Henry Dandolo was fingering them. He was a huge man, still imposing despite his great age. Now he seemed almost lost in his stiff, brocaded clothing. There was a small velvet cap on his head with the hawk's feather of Venice set in it at a jaunty angle. His narrow face was unshaven, gray stubble catching silver glints from the firelight. He had a thin, sunken mouth tightly held, and his eye sockets showed the cloudy blue-gray of cataractic sightlessness. He didn't look up as the servant announced the presence of Lord Faust, newly arrived from the west.

"Come in, take a seat, my dear Faust," Henry Dandolo said, his voice booming and vibrant, speaking a correct but accented German. "The servants have set out the wine, have they not? Take a glass, my good sir, and make yourself at home in my humble quarters. Do you like these baubles?" He gestured at the tray of jewels.

"I have seen their like from time to time," Mack said, bending over the tray. "But never finer. These have a brilliant luster and appear to be exceptional specimens."

The ruby is especially fine, is it not?" Dandolo asked, lifting a gem the size of a pigeon's egg in his thick white fingers and turning it this way and that. "It was sent me by the Nabob of Taprobane. And this emerald"—his fingers went to it unerringly—"hath a remarkable fire for its size, think you not?"

"Indeed I do," said Mack. "But I marvel, sir, that sightless as you are, you can yet perceive these qualities and make such distinctions. Or have you developed an eyesight in your fingertips?"

Dandolo laughed, a harsh bass cackle ending in a dry cough. "Eyes in my fingertips! What a fancy! Yet betimes I believe it to be so, for my hands so love to touch fine gems that they have developed their own appreciation of them. Fine cloth, too, is a favorite of mine, as it is of any true Venetian, and I can tell you more about the tightness of warp and woof than a Flanders weaver. Yet these are but an old man's fancies. I have something more valuable than that." "Indeed, sir?" Mack said.

"Take a look at this." The old man reached behind him and his fingers found and opened the lid of a large wooden chest. Reaching in, he took out the gorgeously painted wooden picture that had nestled in the crushed velvet. "Do you know what this is?" Dandolo demanded. "Indeed I do not," Mack said. "It is the icon of the holy St. Basil. Its possession is said infallibly to ensure the continuing safety and prosperity of the city of Constantinople. Do you know why I show you this?"

"I can't imagine, my lord."

"Because I want you to take a message to your master. Are you listening carefully?"

"I am," Mack said, his mind filled with conjectures.

"Tell the Holy Father in Rome that I spit on him and his mean-minded excommunication. As long as this icon is in my possession, I have no need for his blessings."

"You want me to tell him that?" Mack asked.

"Word for word."

"So I shall, if it is ever my fortune to meet the Holy Father."

"Do not toy with me," Dandolo said. "Although you disguise it, I know you are his representative."

"I most respectfully beg to differ," Mack said. "I don't come from the Pope. I represent different interests."

"You're really not from the Pope?'

The old man's blind gaze was so fierce that even if Mack had been the Pope's emissary he would have denied it.