It was her turn to wince. Ursinus really did have an impressive command of the cruder forms of invective. Billy Trumble was no slouch either, come to it.
“Just stay put, Sanchez,” she commanded. “The gist of what’s happening is that Billy is assuring the crowd that you Spaniards were not complicit in the foul and dastardly and—oh lots of other words—murder of Joe Buckley. Indeed, he is casting some aspersions on the crowd itself—he really shouldn’t use language like that—for their, ah, stupidity is the mildest term he’s used so far, in even thinking so.”
She pursed her lips for a moment, whistling a little. “Um. That was a particularly unnecessary flourish, I think. Now he’s pointing out to the crowd—mostly in what we’d call four letter terms—that even sorry imbecilic—ah, that last expression refers to incestuous persons—should have enough sense to understand who was really to blame. The more so since the Venetian residents on Murano who came to our aid immediately thereafter will vouch—I’m really cleaning this up a lot, you understand; maybe in another universe I should look into getting a job as a UN translator—that we found evidence planted by Ducos’ agents as well, of course, as having two of the agents themselves now in the custody of the Venetians—although God knows what’s happened to them since—and—”
She broke off, recoiling from the window as if suddenly splashed by a wave. “Oh, Lord! Now Conrad’s getting into the act—his language really stinks—I wonder if he and Billy set this up ahead of time?—and the gist of what he’s saying, leaving aside about five hundred I-told-you-sos, is that they ought to be heading for the French embassy.”
The crowd started chanting something. The name “d’Avaux” figured prominently in the chants. Within seconds, the sound of the chants grew dimmer in the distance.
Sharon closed the window. “And that’s that. I do hope, for his sake, that the comte has a fast horse.”
“Sweet it is,” murmured Bedmar. He took three little prancing steps. “I could die now, happily. That stinking Frenchman, on the run!”
Ruy shared none of his glee. Again, he slapped the bedcovers. “Curse you, woman! I want to watch.”
“You don’t move, Sanchez,” she hissed. “You don’t even think about it.”
Bedmar, grinning, plunked himself on the bed next to Ruy. “So, Ruy, tell me. How were you so foolish as to let”—he pointed a finger at Sharon—”that Gorgon, that Medusa, that black demoness from the Pit, inveigle you into her bed?”
“She tricked me,” Ruy insisted. “It was most foully done. Lured me into an ambush, the witch.”