Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [136]
In a perverted way, it riled Nicholas to be fighting half-sober and therefore unfairly. Height and reach could be counteracted by endurance and skill, and the Crim Tartars had both of these. He did not underestimate them — the state of his body proved how right he was in that —but he faced his real opponent in the end, as he knew he would, regretting that the way should have been paved with disappointment and loss of face for those who had not been born Circassian. And the man’s air of ineffable superiority was due to more than that, as he now knew. Abdan Khan was related to one sultan at least: his father had fled when Khushcadam had become ruler of Egypt, and Abdan had ended, a highly trained Mameluke, commanding the army of the ruler of Gothia, that strange, mixed community that survived in the Crimea at Mánkup.
It made no sense, this aggravation between them. Caffa and Gothia were in equal need of help against Turkey, as was the Crimean Horde. They needed each other. That was why a highly trained commander like Abdan Khan was here, teaching his skills to the armies of Qirq-yer as well as Mánkup. This hostility made as much sense as the useless quarrel in Caffa over who the next Tartar governor ought to be. Facing the other man now, his hands spread, his bare feet planting themselves on worn grass, Nicholas decided to concentrate.
They had a manner of wrestling in Iceland which he had seen, and which he had had described to him exactly. It was not unlike the kind he had just experienced. Through the years, he had experimented with other styles, too, as anyone would, in a war camp with time to put off. He also knew a great deal about the principles of leverage, as imparted to him impatiently by a brilliant engineer. The engineer whom Abdan Khan might hope to have at his side, if he would bloody cease trying to kill his intermediary.
Except that, of course, if Nicholas sent for him, the same engineer would refuse.
He got thrown, then. It was extremely painful, and taught him to keep his mind on his work. It also made him nearly as angry as the Circassian was.
The Khan, observing the fall, was moved to question his adviser in the subsequent roar, which almost extinguished the din of the field-drums. ‘Was this contest wise?’
‘I have tried reasoned argument,’ said Karaï Mirza. ‘It is better that one man or the other is out of the way.’ He spoke with regret, for he could see the good and the bad in most men, and did not like waste. The Khan said, ‘Their hâkim, it is true, will not mind if this man dies. The imam will be angry.’
‘It is my belief,’ said Karaï Mirza, ‘that the Patriarch also has gambled, and will abide by the result. We should have to pay compensation. He may even be counting on that.’
‘The non-Venetian knows a great many holds,’ said the Khan, with some interest. ‘It is not Rustam against Puladvand, but it is well enough. Tell them to bring up more torches.’
The extra light, to Nicholas, was not an advantage. It aborted a sequence of moves for which darkness was preferable, and allowed his opponent a sight of the red and blue swellings, the raw and ripped patches of flesh on which he might profitably concentrate. And if the Circassian’s eyes were truly sharp, he would notice the shape of one wrist, which was not as it should be. It had started to swell since their last harsh, twisting struggle and, sprained or snapped, was now useless. His chances, therefore, were not good — but they hadn’t been good, either, on the raft, when he and Benecke had had their slight disagreement. Suddenly cheered, for no reason whatever, Nicholas decided he ought to fix this bastard, too. Ramming his right arm violently under Abdan’s left shoulder so that he inadvertently turned, Nicholas thrust out his right leg and, meeting hard flesh and bone,