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bald and sunburned skull. A portrait of respectability was an asset to maintain as judiciously as one weighed metal.
    Vettori looked up pointedly from his work.
    “All right, there’s plenty,” Fabbro said quickly, “but the Doc can’t keep me— us —down forever. I’ve got money.”
    “He’ll say it’s not about that,” Vettori said mildly.
    Fabbro was not going to tolerate quibbles. “I’ve got a right to sit in the Signoria, as much as Guercho Vaccarelli or any of thoseFamily heads who come knocking at midnight for loans I mustn’t speak of. Maybe the Bombelli banner isn’t as old as Bardini’s or as pretty as Morello’s, but we do well. People go to the Doc for his flag. They come to me to pay for it.”
    “And you go to him when you need help. If you have a voice in the Signoria, you won’t need him anymore.”
    “Well, he’s pushing against the current.”
    “Sure it’s pushing that way? Why don’t you wait till next year? The Scaligeri girl will be Contessa then; maybe she’ll—”
    “Bah! The Doc raised her. When she holds the mace, it’ll be another way to hide his hand. No. The time’s now. I have a claim to a seat and a right. He can’t fight progress.”
    “He can do what he likes. The Small People can’t fight the Families.”
    “How would you know? Tried lately?”
    Vettori slumped as if the frayed string had finally snapped. The loom ceased with indiscreet silence.
    “Sorry,” Fabbro said quickly. “I’m just—Not being able to use your people—it’s frustrating. I’ve outgrown my shoes, but nobody will sell me a new pair.”
    Vettori gave a thin laugh. “Don’t worry about it, Fabbro. You’re right. You’re the one who kept your business going, not me. What do I know?”
    “You’re just down on your luck.”
    “Sure.” Vettori smiled, his lips tight.
    Fabbro looked around for a distraction. He understood that old friends, like old ambitions, became embarrassing when you were poor. “ Madonna! What’s that, Pedro?”
    “It’s what I needed the glass for, Signore Bombelli.” Pedro’s maybe-machines were inhibited not only by a dearth of information; most remained sketches because the only material he had readily to hand was uncarded wool. On his last visit, Fabbro had brought his godson some Ariminumese glass as well as the usual descriptions of inventions Pedro so loved hearing about. By collating these stories and sifting through the layer of suspicion attachedto all things Bernoullian, Pedro learned what a particular machine did, and then he could tackle the larger question of how.
    Now the merchant held the magnifier to the light. His restless hands were always picking up things, appraising, weighing, costing—cost was more than a figure; it was merit enumerated, judgment every bit as just and severe as Heaven’s, although God was not known to be open to negotiation.
    He peered through.
    “ Dio! I can see across the river! You devised this?”
    “I just copied it. The Morello’s Contract this year is shortsighted. He has a pair of glass disks that let him see better. I just copied the design and doubled them up like this so I could see far.”
    “Bah! A typical Vanzetti, too modest. That’s not copying—that’s inventing . To see a complete thing and understand its working, that’s a gift.” Pedro blushed as Fabbro ruffled his hair. “You remind me of your old man young.”
    Vettori’s head was bowed, and he was back at his loom. Fabbro downed the drink, smacked his lips loudly, then said what he’d come to say, quietly: “If you need a small loan, Vettori, just ask. Of course, no interest for old friends.”
    Vettori looked at Fabbro, contrasted the bright banners of the past with the gray and threadbare present, and set his jaw. “Thank you for your concern, Signore Bombelli, but I didn’t knock on your door.”
    Fabbro saw that Vettori would go hungry before taking charity. He knew too that unless he regularly made the perilous