“Firewood? Scaffolding? A bloody great wooden sphinx? Egyptians love their sodding sphinxes—lions with girl faces and bosoms—right degenerate if you ask me, but . . .” I considered my own experience with the rodgering of mythical beasts and reconsidered my hasty condemnation of the Egyptian sphinx shaggers. “So the lumber is for . . . ?”

“The oak is to build siege engines: catapults, ballistas, and trebuchets. There is no wood strong enough for such machines in Egypt, or in most of the lands of the Muslims. Antonio is selling material to Muslims to build weapons for a war that the Venetians are hoping to push the Christians into starting.”

I looked at the top of the bald head of the tailor, then at the Moor. “Should we, perhaps, present a bit more of a challenge for any spies in your command?”

“He does not speak the language.”

“I see,” said I. To the tailor I said, “Leave loads of slack around the cod, tailor, I’ll need lots of room to expand when your daughter’s doing the nightly knob rubbing for all the blokes in the regiment.”

The tailor glanced up quickly, then went back to his work, marking and pinning. The Moor raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Well?”

“He either doesn’t understand or he’s resolved to his daughter being a slut.”

The tailor appeared to be finished. He smiled and stepped back, gesturing for me to take my kit off and give it to him so he could get to his sewing. He folded my motley and left the room with a bow to Othello and a grin toward me.

“So, a holy war would be on but for your late father-in-law shuffling off this mortal coil and a humble and handsome fool surviving their heinous fuckery most foul. A war setting the church against your own people, Othello.”

“I am not a Muslim, Pocket.”

“Well, you’re not a bloody Christian, are you? And every druid I’ve ever known is on the snowflake side of pale, so I’d say you’re a bit tar-tinted for that persuasion. You’re not a Jew, are you? No, of course not, you don’t have a yellow hat. Unless . . .” I engaged the Moor with a steely yet inquisitive gaze. “Othello, do you have a secret yellow Jew hat?”