“The Shroud,” Michael said suddenly with a dramatic snap of his fingers. “The Shroud is too tall.”

“What do you mean?” Geraint asked.

“The figure on the Shroud is nearly two and a half meters tall. What’s more, the front and reverse images of the torso are different sizes by about five centimeters. One of the reasons why it’s hard to claim that it’s anyone’s winding-sheet, let alone that of a specific person”

“So?” Streak said laconically. “So our great genius can’t draw proportion. So much for genius.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Michael began, but he couldn’t crystallize his thoughts. Something still eluded him.

“Then Gianfranco is telling us to look in Florence?” Serrin asked, squinting a little to study the image closely. With a mere laptop, the printer would take some time to produce a high-res printout of the archive photograph.

“Merlin says he may have moved on,” Geraint added. “Somewhere close.”

“Okay, but let’s consider Florence first,” Serrin insisted. “What’s Leonardo’s history in Florence?”

“He spent some four years there, if I recall correctly,” Michael told him. “He wasn’t happy. He had left his master’s studio after he was, I seem to remember, accused of high-jinks with some seventeen-year-old. But the Medicis, effectively the ruling family, don’t seem to have rated him much. He headed for Milan, where he spent maybe twenty years. After that, there were spells back in Florence, Venice, Milan again, and then he died in France. In the arms of the king, the story goes.”

Geraint laughed. “You’ve been reading up.”

“If someone’s seriously into a Leonardo persona, it seemed like a good idea,” Michael replied.

“So what now? We go to Florence and put ads in the papers and on the bulletin boards saying, ‘Tasty bird wants to meet Leonardo for a bit of artistic experimentation’?” Streak said sarcastically.

“I don’t think so. The seventeen-year-old wasn’t female,” Michael said sagely.

“Ah,” the elf said.

“Not that anything was proved. Such accusations were often made for political reasons. Anyway-Michael got up and gave his hair a distracted ruffle-I’ve got a report to file for Renraku, but at least this gives me something solid to give them at last. I can say where we’re going next and make up an ingenious set of lies to embroider the story a bit, and they’ll send me a comfortingly large sum of money by return. At the very least, that’ll pay for the neurologist I’m going to need if I get my brain scrambled by gas or falling on rocks again, or anything else. Coffee?”

‘Please,” Serrin asked.

“What amazes me,” Streak said as Michael went into kitchen, “is how come we’re alone in this. There must other people after this guy.”

“Michael and I wondered about that, too.” Geraint said. There probably are. But Renraku was the only corp to get the icon. They’ve probably hired a couple of other teams, but they’d stick with the best. Michael certainly qualifies as that, and there aren’t many, not for something on this scale. I bet we’re a jump ahead of any other team. We’re not alone, but we must be a short head in front.”

“Eh?” Kristen was baffled.

“A horse racing term,” Geraint explained.

“Geraint,” Michael said innocently as he returned from the kitchen with a ceramic tray bearing mugs of steaming coffee. “I wondered why you mentioned our man moving on when Florence was suggested. You know someone there, don’t you?” He grinned mischievously.

“I was rather hoping you’d forgotten,” Geraint said, obviously ruffled and embarrassed.

Streak saw his reaction immediately. “Tell us,” he said with an evil grin. “My Lordship, we have to save the world from the forces of chaos and discord and we need every friendly face we can find.”

“Frag off,” Geraint said pointedly. “I know a certain noble in Florence, yes.”

“More than that.” Michael twisted the knife.

“Very well, I had a relationship with a certain countess from the city some years ago,” Geraint admitted to them all with an acknowledging sweep of his hand.

“Come now, my lord. So modest! There was a duel,” Michael said grandly.

“That was blown all out of proportion,” Geraint grumbled.

“The pistols were loaded,” Michael continued with relish.

“He only suffered a flesh wound.”

“I’m afraid,” Michael announced to Serrin and Kristen in an excellent impersonation of a regretful English butler, that our friend had an affaire d’amour with a married lady. The duel was at dawn in the garden at-”

“Yes, yes, all right,” Geraint said irritably.

And I believe her husband is dead, killed n a car crash,” Michael said. “So the lady Cecilia is a widow now. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to receive a visit.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t,” Geraint countered.

“Cecilia? That’s an Italian name?”

“Lady With an Ermine,” Michael said mysteriously.

“With what?”

“One of Leonardo’s paintings. The woman was Cecilia Gallerani, a young Milanese-a teenager when Leonardo painted her. I recall vaguely that she had a somewhat interesting romantic life. Rather like your Cecilia, Geraint. Now there’s a femme fatale.”

Geraint shrugged wearily. “Yes, I had an affair with a rather tempestuous married Italian countess. I wasn’t the first and I dare say I shan’t he the last. We did part on good terms, but I will not use this contact to get us into Florentine high society.”

Four pairs of eyes turned as one to look at him. Throats were cleared, voices prepared to go into cajole-and-beg mode.

He never would be sure exactly how they managed to persuade him to change his mind, but within ten minutes he made the call.

“We leave tomorrow,” Geraint told them. “Fortunately, Cecilia is about to set off on one of her jaunts. She’ll receive us for lunch, and then she’s off to the mysterious Orient. Her words, not mine.”

There was clearly some relief in his voice. Michael had had time to develop some guilt about digging at him. He now recalled the events of that time more clearly, and although he hadn’t been spending much time in London then, he remembered that Geraint’s entanglement with the Countess, whom he’d never himself met, had seemed to hit the nobleman rather hard. It hadn’t been one of the litany of short-term affairs with glamorous, often aristocratic women that Geraint had these days. But Michael recalled that the woman was a dozen years or so older than Geraint, and despite his assuredly romantic leanings, the Welshman would have had the sense to realize that it could never have been anything more than an affaire d’amour. Didn’t he?

“Time is running out,” Michael said.

The doctor said you need rest. He said you shouldn’t be undertaking any exertions for four days at the least and absolutely no decking until tomorrow. More haste, less peed, old man,” Geraint wagged a finger at him.

“Yeah, but we could go tonight,” Michael urged. “Get sone groundwork done.”

“That’s not what I arranged,” Geraint said smoothly. Serrin also needs rest.”

“I do?” the elf said, surprised.

“Yes, you do,” Geraint insisted. “And Kristen agrees with me.”

Serrin looked askance at his wife, who gave him a grin and a raised eyebrow and that “Yes, we’ve been talking about you” look she could summon up impressively when the situation so required.

“But-” Michael began, and then couldn’t suppress a big yawn. He looked surprised at himself, amazed that his body had betrayed him so easily. Fatigue and lassitude were, indeed, creeping up on him. His calves ached, and there was a stiffness in his shoulders and back that didn’t help him deal with his residual headache too well.

“Well, stuff it,” he said amiably. “It feels like my body’s decided for me. Maybe you’re right, Geraint. Time for a siesta.” He shuffled off toward the bedrooms.

“I just might do the same thing,” the Welshman said, yawning himself. “I’m whacked.”