Pawn in Frankincense (52 page)

‘Every element in life has its due importance,’ said Marthe. ‘Some greater, some less. As it happens, no time has been lost. I can tell you precisely where the child is. You will find him at the House of the Nightingales in Constantinople.’

Jerott laughed. ‘There is a widespread and sudden compulsion to set out for Constantinople: are the clouds raining Lancashire egg-pies and peacocks?’ he said. ‘Pierre Gilles begs me to accompany him; the Attaché cannot wait to get me on my way, at least as far as Chios. I wonder who is waiting at Constantinople, apart from the other victims of this farcical pilgrimage?’

‘I cannot help it,’ said Marthe. ‘The child is there. I received the information here in Aleppo, and I know it is true.’

‘Not at Chios?’ said Jerott. ‘Be careful. The
Peppercorn
calls at Chios, you know: not at the Sublime Porte.’

‘I know. He and the Syrian woman landed at Chios and then … Look,’ said Marthe. ‘There is presumably no reason why you should believe me, but equally there is no reason why you shouldn’t at least go to Chios and inquire for yourself. Any number of independent witnesses, I am sure, will have seen them both.’

‘What do you have to do with the Saracens of Savah?’ said Jerott abruptly; and Marthe looked up, her eyes wide.

‘I wakened … once,’ he said. ‘Were you buying, or selling?
Who pays you, Marthe?
’

‘You don’t understand,’ she said. In her lap, the loose hands had ground together: between the fair brows a single line showed, of anger and disgust and a kind of futile perplexity. ‘You don’t understand: how can you? You were born into a household, with parents and wealth; you knew your friends and your enemies; you knew your position in life; whom you were fighting for: whom you were against. I am alone.
Every man is my enemy.
’

Jerott stared at her. She said, loosing her hands and standing up, ‘You wish to travel on your own to Chios and then to the Sublime Porte. It is of no importance. I shall make my own dispositions.’

‘No,’ said Jerott. ‘On the contrary. I want you where I can see you. I want you with me every step of the way. I want you where I can see you when you meet Francis Crawford.’

‘He knows,’ said Marthe. And then, as Jerott took a quick breath, ‘He knows at least that the child is not at Aleppo,’ she added. ‘He has known since Djerba, I think.’

‘Then why …?’

‘Why let us come? Why send us, in fact? Don’t you know, Mr Blyth? Oh, he made sure that the hunt for this child wouldn’t stop: he has sent Archie, I am sure, to scour every Venetian port in the whole Middle Seas in an effort to find where the
Peppercorn
landed … why do you think that Archie failed to come here? This was the one place he was told to leave strictly alone.’

Why let us come?
Jerott’s mind, trying to read that other, more subtle mind, thought of many things: of the strange woman Kiaya Khátún; of the agony of that dark night at Djerba, when Lymond and Marthe had spoken over his head; of Lymond’s unaccustomed voice, saying on the edge of that tragic garden in Algiers,
I can’t do without you
. And Marthe’s, saying,
Yes, I shall take your disciple Jerott
, manco passioni humane,
and he shall be returned to you weaned
.

‘God damn you both,’ Jerott said through his teeth, and, flinging away from her, stood, breathing hard, at the one unshuttered window, unseeing, his hands fists on the sill. ‘You summon and you throw away. You treat love like a bird for the table … Like a pawn, now in frankincense, now discarded and thrown in the dirt. You don’t know what love is, either of you. And God help us and you, if you ever find out.’

Sitting very still in her chair, Marthe had not moved. ‘You speak of me,’ she said. ‘I am happy to exercise your imagination. Who is the other?’

‘You know who I mean,’ said Jerott. ‘Only one other person can hurt as you do. And that is Francis Crawford of Lymond.’

‘Of course,’ said Marthe. ‘He is my brother.’

In one thing, the French Consular Attaché at Aleppo was right. His Most Christian Majesty of France’s good galley
Dauphiné
, sailed hard and effectively, entered the harbour of Thessalonika under perfect control and dropped anchor, after an eventful voyage, before the month of August was out. And before even Onophrion, soft-footed and deft, had spread his dishes for dinner, His Most Christian Majesty’s Special Envoy, whose acid tongue the ship’s complement, from master to slave, respected and feared, had written and sealed a note for the Beglierbey of all Greece, requesting an audience.

It was taken ashore while Lymond and Gaultier sat down to their meal.

Until now, for reasons of his own, Georges Gaultier had had little to do with the Comte de Sevigny under any of his various titles. Twice before, against his will, he had played a part in Mr Francis Crawford’s affairs, at the behest of the old woman whose word was his will. A third time, he had done so when he had compelled Marthe to come on this voyage with him. But that was the end. In his own line of business, Georges Gaultier liked to control all the odds. The Dame de Doubtance was in Lyons, not here. What he did here was nobody’s concern but his own.

He had not enjoyed the journey. For one thing, the speed had been excessive: in wind, the galley had been made to carry sail after sail until her masts groaned with the strain: in calm, the slaves had rowed in shifts, à outrance, until both he and the master had forecast a revolt.

It had not come, he realized, because Lymond’s judgement of what men could or could not bear was seldom at fault. At intervals also, they had stopped to put ashore or pick up Salablanca or Onophrion or one of the officers to make inquiries. They knew the route the Children of Devshirmé had followed, but the route Philippa had taken with her group of young men was different. Here and there, on the coast, they had picked up traces of her and once, outside Volos, Onophrion had returned with the skiff full of villagers, their arms full of bread and baskets of honey and fruit, whom Lymond had asked on board.

They had brought lute and viols with them and danced on the poop till the sun sank in the sea, and Onophrion set a feast for them under a still, starry sky, with candles burning overhead in the sheets. There had been a little girl, a bride of no more than thirteen, with great silver shoe-buckles hung in her ears, who had caught Lymond’s attention, Gaultier saw; and the royal Envoy crossed over to admire them and speak to her.

He had not been the only man watching Lymond. As the girl smiled and Lymond got up to leave her, a slender figure walked out of the shadows: a young man with long, wet hair and a remarkable face, slanting-browed and hollow-cheeked with the narrow jaw and wide, sensual mouth of the Slav. He wore a loose purple tunic, streaming with sea-water, and no adornment but his grace: Georges Gaultier, who loved beautiful things, watched him enchanted. Now, face to face with Francis Crawford, he had chosen a moment when the other man was not surrounded: was in fact out of earshot of everyone but Georges Gaultier, still sitting forgotten near by. They confronted each other in the moonlight, the fair-haired and the dark; and the young man drew a long breath and smiled, his white teeth gleaming, his long lashes veiling his eyes. O áshiq Pasha … they had not told me thou wert …’

‘… eligible? I am not,’ said Lymond without heat. ‘You are Míkál?’

The teeth flashed. ‘Thou hast heard of me? And yet I am without the bells.’

‘There are other forms of identification,’ said Lymond. ‘Where is Philippa Somerville?’

‘I come to tell thee,’ said the boy Míkál in his musical voice. ‘We sit, yes? Philippa Khátún spoke much of thee. And the child of thine she must find. She says the mother is dead, and thou hast no lady now.’

‘A reasonably accurate assessment of my plight,’ said Lymond agreeably.

‘Then thou hast need of a friend. I am thy friend,’ said Míkál. He looked through his lashes and must have seen, as Gaultier saw, the quickly suppressed flash of laughter in Lymond’s eyes, for he suddenly laughed himself, in his clear voice, and added, ‘Within limits?’

‘Within limits,’ Lymond agreed; and, moving for the first time, dropped lightly to sit on the other side of the hatch-cover against which Míkál was reclining. ‘And especially if you will tell me where Philippa Khátún is.’

‘I cannot tell thee where she is, but I know where she goes. She found the little child, which was taken from Marino Donati’s house in Zakynthos—thou knowest Marino Donati is dead?’

‘Yes,’ said Lymond.

‘Good riddance,’ said Míkál cheerfully; and blew an extravagant kiss. ‘And the sister too: dead at Thessalonika just after Philippa Khátún had met her. So they gave Philippa Khátún the care of the child.’

From his light-gilded hair to the rings on his clasped hands, Lymond had become very still. ‘Donati’s sister? Do you by any chance mean Evangelista Donati?’

‘It is right,’ said Míkál. ‘She was taking the child, so they said, to Stamboul with the Children. Now Philippa Khátúm will take it instead.’

‘But … did she not try to buy it?’ asked Lymond. ‘Did she not ask your help?’

Míkál shrugged his elegant shoulders. ‘They would not sell. And as for helping her—this a man of war might have done. Thyself, hadst thou been here. But we, Crawford Efendi, are Children of Love. We do not hurt or take life. I am asked to see that she is safe, and she is safe. She will come to no harm.’

‘I am not yet quite clear about this,’ said Lymond; and Gaultier, listening, recognized without difficulty the tone of his voice. ‘Philippa Khátúm failed to purchase the child, and was unable, without your help, to take it away. She therefore stayed with it and, no doubt, the rest of the Children when they left Thessalonika? Then where is she now?’

‘At Stamboul, perhaps,’ said Míkál. ‘Or Constantinople, as many still call it.… It does not take long. Perhaps three weeks, if they make many stops. Or they may have sent her ahead with the child. Yes, in Stamboul assuredly, I should think.’

‘I see. Then, if they refused to sell the child, it presumably is now in the Seraglio. And Philippa Khátúm, I should hope, is in the French Ambassador’s house, awaiting me. Do you think this is so?’

‘No,’ said Míkál. ‘How could she protect the child from an Ambassador’s house? There are assassins, she says, who will kill the child when the man for whom he is hostage dies by thy hand.… Is that true?’

‘It is true,’ said Lymond. ‘And he is dead.’

‘So. How could she take him to Stamboul and still not protect him? Not so. It is arranged instead that she will go with him, where no assassin or any harm can touch either. Is it not well done?’

‘I’ll tell you that in a moment,’ said Lymond. ‘
Where is she going?
’

‘To the Sultan’s Seraglio,’ said Míkál simply.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Lymond said.

There was a long silence. ‘Thou art distressed, Efendi?’ asked Míkál at length, soothingly. ‘She will live like a queen. In her own country she has no husband, no riches, no palace?’

‘You are perfectly correct,’ said Lymond. ‘It would also be hard to find three possessions she would find more ridiculous. Was this by any chance the woman Donati’s idea?’

‘I think it likely,’ said Míkál peacefully; and Gaultier, glimpsing Lymond’s face in the moonlight, swore under his breath. Tomorrow, more ruthless sailing; more of this total indifference towards the rights and requirements of his fellow-passengers. Salablanca was a nigger and used to it; Onophrion was a servile old woman by nature. Gaultier was finding it more and more hard to put up with it. He got
up and already was moving away as Onophrion came forward to tell Lymond that their guests were now disembarking.

Míkál stayed where he was; but Lymond rose to give the villagers his last greetings and watch them climb down into the two boats: their own, and the
Dauphiné’s
caique, with Onophrion officiously in the bows, which was to take back those who had swum, like Míkál, to the galley.

Gaultier noticed that Míkál was still not among them. He saw the two boats cast off, with Onophrion’s high-pitched voice floating over the water, and turned back, enjoying the quiet now that the flutes and lyres and tambourines had stopped, and there were only the quiet sounds of the ship settling down for the night. After a while, he made his way to the ladder which led down to his room and was about to descend when he saw Lymond, who had been speaking to the patron, walk back to the hatch where he had been sitting with Míkál. Gaultier paused. He heard Lymond say, in his clear speaking-voice, ‘I am sailing to Thessalonika, to obtain a licence from the Viceroy to buy back Philippa Khátún and the child, if I can. If they are not yet in Constantinople, it might work. If they are already in the Sublime Porte, then I shall make submissions to Suleiman.’

Míkál’s voice was gentle. ‘You will use the name of France to redeem your son and the maiden?’

‘To redeem these two children,’ said Lymond concisely, ‘I would use the names of Prester John and Antiochus Tibertus and even that of Güzel Kiaya Khátún.’

‘Who is she?’ said Míkál.

‘You must ask her, next time you meet her,’ said Lymond, and lifted his eyebrows as Míkál got to his feet. The candles flared. For a moment, both men facing each other were illuminated in brilliant light: Gaultier could see the flat, fluted back of Lymond’s fine doublet, and Míkál, his hair a soft nimbus about the high cheekbones, the long limbs brown and bare as a girl’s. Then, with the burst of light, came one small, tell-tale sound.

A second before Míkál, Lymond looked up. Gaultier heard him shout, and saw him in the same moment thrust the young geomaler spinning and, flinging himself back on the rebound, cannon into and drive back with his shoulder the seaman lingering nearest him. As he did so, the yardarm of the mainmast, thirty-three solid metres of smouldering wood, crashed where he had been, followed by flakes of still-flaring hemp from the burning sheets which had severed it.

Someone screamed. Then Lymond, Míkál and the splintered mess where the yardarms had fallen were all hidden by the rush of seamen and officers to the wreckage, followed by swift deployments to put out the fires flying like pennants from the standing rigging and braces and now endangering the masts. Someone, groaning, was carried
past Gaultier and taken below—an oarsman, he thought. No one else appeared to be hurt.