Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [140]
Nicholas laid down his pen with delicacy, and looked up. ‘I look forward, yes, to developing his trade in the Peninsula, once he has recovered his outlay in furs. At present, sadly, he has little to invest.’
‘But if that were repaired?’
‘The possibilities appear to me endless. It troubles me only to know which Tudun to apply to, in arranging my affairs. The Khan has agreed to name one Tartar governor, but the Genoese, I am told, now favour another.’ He waited, his expression pellucid. If he were now to be trusted, he might as well discover how far.
Karaï Mirza answered with calm. ‘The Genoese have lost confidence, it is true, in the first candidate, the last Tudun’s brother. Many prefer his nephew, the son of the last Tudun’s widow. The lady is rich.’
‘And so?’ Nicholas said.
‘And so I cannot advise you at present. My Khan does not wish to force his opinion on the traders to whom he has given these fiefs. When he has reached a conclusion, you may hear it. He will wish to see you soon. But meanwhile, have you not written enough for today? Does your left hand still pain you, or did our care of it help? Abdan Khan knows of another shaman, he tells me, and could take you to him whenever you wish.’
‘I am not sure —’ Nicholas began.
‘You should go with him,’ the older man said. ‘If not now, then certainly before you depart from Qirq-yer.’ When he was being jocular, his cheeks became bossed, and his eyes were curved downwards like sickles. Now, he was not being jocular. Against all inclination, Nicholas conveyed his acceptance and thanks.
He would have to go, but not today; not until the last moment, when whatever transpired could not mar the effect of his visit. He remembered too well what had happened after the new-found camaraderie of the chess game. Then, observing the state of his wrist, Abdan Khan had insisted on having it attended to. There were physicians in the fortress of Qirq-yer, but the treatment was carried out in a yurt in the plain, beside a small fire of dung whose smoke rose through the peak of the conical roof of the tent. Like all its kind, it was fitted out as a home, with wall-carpets and matting, cushions and boxes, and ledges crowded with objects.
The man who studied his arm, sitting crosslegged beside him, was not old, despite his beard and his crumpled, long-skirted gown. The possessions around him were modest, but the prayer-beads in his sash were not cheap, and neither was the brooch that pinned the upturned brim of his high cap. He spoke very seldom, and then in a mixture of languages, but often hummed to himself. The most eloquent sound in the room was that of a little half-drum, which kept up a continuous tapping, loud and soft, slow or quick, according, you would say, to the physician’s wishes and moods. Yet he never spoke, or even looked towards the boy who was playing.
Nicholas had heard of the shaman religion, practised long ago on the shores of the Black Sea and elsewhere. He recognised the soothing effect of the wordless voice and the drum, for it conjured a feeling he already knew, when he surrendered his conscious mind to the pendulum. Recognition brought a surge of annoyance, but he did not let it reach the hand in the shaman’s possession, or his face, or the rest of his body.
Or so he thought, until the shaman’s eyes lifted to his, and he said, ‘Do not be afraid.’
‘He will not hurt you,’ said Abdan Khan.
‘It is not pain that he fears,’ the shaman had answered, and smiled. ‘We are in the same trade.’
‘What?’ had said Abdan Khan.
And the weathered face, neither Tartar nor Georgian, had turned the smile on Nicholas. ‘Ask us what the weather will be in December. When will the Khan die? What predator will sail into Caffa, and when?’
‘You would not answer,’ Abdan Khan said. But he was looking at Nicholas.
‘Neither should I,’ Nicholas said. He could hear the harshness in his own voice.
‘A pity,’ said the shaman blandly. ‘There