Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [137]
He had, however, the use of only one hand. Abdan, half concussed, opened his eyes and, baring his teeth, gripped and wrung — not the hand at his throat, but the grotesque, swollen wrist of the other. Nicholas grunted. Despite himself, his throttling hand slackened, and, kicking, the Circassian wrenched himself free, rolled apart and sprang to his feet, scooping up something as he did so. When Nicholas rose, swearing fluently, Abdan was approaching him, a stone in either hand.
Nicholas viewed him. They had not, he was conscious, been following any laws of tradition or chivalry: Firdawsi would have been disappointed. But out-and-out hooliganism offered, refreshingly, a new form of licence. As Abdan Khan lifted his arm to throw, or to beat, Nicholas snatched a torch and calmly set fire to him. The Circassian bellowed, flailing and dropping the stones. The spectators screamed. Nicholas, drawing back his good hand, knocked Abdan Khan down and helpfully sat on him, smothering the incandescent breeches and flicking a motherly hand at his smouldering top-knot. Even bald, he was an extraordinarily handsome young man, and could have taught Benecke a thing or two about fighting. He opened his eyes and lay still.
Nicholas said, ‘You didn’t need the stones, you were winning. I don’t know what this is all about, but I don’t bear a grudge. Will you drink with me?’
‘The winner!’ said the Khan’s voice at his side.
Nicholas got up. Abdan Khan, blinking, attempted to sit. The Khan said, ‘Be at ease. You fought well, but the Frank here was more cunning. What does he wish for his prize?’
‘The Khan’s trust,’ Nicholas said.
‘An excellent answer,’ said the Khan. ‘But what of your conquest tonight? What do you demand of Abdan Khan?’
Dust and sweat plastered his body; his gashes stung, his wrist throbbed like the wrestling-drums. Nicholas said, ‘A game of chess, when we have returned to the citadel. If, that is, the commander agrees.’
‘He must agree,’ the Khan said. ‘He has lost.’
They returned to Qirq-yer the following day, Nicholas with his wrist in a sling, and the Circassian riding apart, but glancing at him now and then. Soon after they arrived, the man came to his door and was admitted. He carried a box and board in his hands, and his face, stiff with bruises, was unsmiling. From beneath the snowy turban, the perfect tunic and leggings, there emerged a faint smell of singeing. Nicholas said, ‘Will you sit and drink with me first? It was good sport. Where did you learn?’
The other man hesitated, then setting down what he carried, took the stool and the cup he was given. He said, ‘From my father. And in Cairo, under the Sultan Inal, a kinsman. The students wrestled.’
‘In al-Azhar the Resplendent,’ Nicholas said. ‘I was there, briefly, in the time of the present honoured Sultan, Qayt Bey’
‘And went to the Greeks’ church in Sinai, I heard. Your Arabic is good for a Frank, but strangely mixed: sometimes classical, sometimes Maghgribian.’
‘I have been in Timbuktu,’ Nicholas said. ‘I bought gold. I studied with many wise men who died when war came. The Patriarch will confirm it. He sent me here to prove that I am not a spy. So say to me what you wish.’
‘War came to Trebizond,’ the man said. ‘You were there too. Buying jewels. Studying, perhaps. They talk of you in Mánkup.’
‘In Mánkup?’ The cliff-fortress of the rulers of Gothia attracted many races, most of them Christian, and all of them practised in war, so that the Khan of the Crimean Tartars found them an asset, as he did the Genoese. Once, Mánkup, Gazaria, and the Crimea had been subject to Trebizond; had shared some of its luxuries, and its decadence. He had tasted candied fruits here which he had only come across once before.
‘Naturally, in Mánkup,’ the man said a little impatiently. ‘Did you not know the last rulers of Trebizond? The Emperor David, who was killed with his sons. The daughters who were placed in