"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - St Germain 2 - The Palace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

gesture Ragoczy turned away, leaving the Magister Joacim Branco alone at the edge
of the excavation.
Giuseppe finished spreading the gravel from his sack and looked up. "Jesu,
Maria," he whispered, and had to stop himself from making the Sign of the Cross.
Joacim Branco had come to the very edge of the pit, and in the cold wind the long
sleeves of his houppelande flapped like tattered wings. He stood very still.
It was Enrico who broke the silence. "Magister? Would you care to come down?"
To the relief of the builders the alchemist did not jump into the pit, but made his
way down the causeway. As he came nearer it was seen that he held several
containers in his hands. He put these down on the gravel and turned to Enrico. "At
the fence there are two carts. I will need them."
"How heavy are they?" Lodovico asked, not willing to move.
"They are well-laden. It will take a man apiece to pull them." He turned back to his
containers, having no more interest in the builders.
Enrico shrugged fatalistically and pointed to Giuseppe. "You and Carlo bring
down the carts. Gaspar' and Lodovico can carry down the last of the gravel."
With a sigh Gasparo trudged back up the slope and reluctantly shouldered
another sack of gravel. He thought for a moment about the Patron, about his social
solecism, and he grinned.
He was still grinning later as he sat with Lodovico drinking a last cup of hot
spiced wine. The night had turned cold, providing an excuse for a larger measure of
drink.
"But eggs, Gaspar', hen's eggs!" Lodovico was saying for the third time.
"If it is what the Patron wants, we'll put eggs in the mortar. Shells and all." He
raised his wooden cup. "To Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, generous
madman that he is."
"Ah, since he touched cheeks with you, you approve every foolish scheme he and
that alchemist of his bring forth. If he wanted to cement the palazzo with blood,
you'd wield a butcher's ax for him." He stared into the fragrant steam that rose from
his wine. "Where is all your jeering now, Gaspar'?"
Gasparo Tucchio smiled again, and wondered if he was getting drunk. "It is
nothing to me if he wishes to be a laughingstock. And think of the tales we'll have to
tell the Arte. Who has done anything to compare with it? Oh, I know. You're
thinking of Ernan', and his stories about building the cage for Magnifico's giraffe.
But that is nothing to the tales we'll have. And when the others come to finish the
walls and lay the floors, we'll have stories to amaze even them." He tossed off the
rest of the wine and considered signaling the tavern-keeper for more.
"But why does he do it? What is his gain? For if money speaks a universal
language, as he said, then he must profit by our work." Lodovico considered this,
and his face grew wary. After a moment he extended his cup to Gasparo. "Here. My
head is growing heavy. Finish this up."
Gasparo's reluctance was for form's sake only. "If you are sure… And the night
is cold. Why not?" He took the cup and filled his mouth with the fragrant wine. How
grand it felt, as if he were floating. What if he was a little drunk? It did a man good to
drink on such a cold night.
 "I wonder what happened to the rain?" Lodovico mused.
"It held off awhile, like the Patron said," Gasparo replied after he had swallowed
and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"How did he know it would?" This question was more to himself than to
Gasparo, and so he paid little attention to the answer. "Well, he's an alchemist. They