“What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. ‘Where’s the sense in running away?’ ‘Doesn’t trust me,’ Gerald said briefly. She laid her hand upon his arm. Drawing his hanger he rode amongst the crowd, trampled upon those most in advance, and made an attempt to seize their leader, in whom he recognised Blueskin. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis.
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