Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [143]
‘I observe it,’ Nicholas said. ‘Karaï Mirza, where shall we next meet? I hear Abdan Khan is to come with me part of the way.’
‘We shall meet in Caffa one day,’ said the secretary. ‘Although I may pass you in the street, being haughty and of very short memory. Meanwhile, of course, there is to be a supper tonight. I have brought some of the darasun in advance, to ask your advice as to its quality. If I may take the liberty?’
Departure next day was quiet. There was no excitement and no guard of honour: he was a merchant whom the Khan had invited, and for whom the Khan had given a parting supper which had lasted most of the night. There had been some dancing and singing, a deal of hilarity and a vast amount of drinking: the silence this morning was one of languor. Nicholas had already spoken to the many he knew, and was able, now, to reward those who had served him. But when he joined his short cavalcade, and rode with Abdan Khan through the arched outer doors of the citadel, he was conscious of carrying away something more than material gifts. He had arrived, a merchant on business, as once he had arrived at the Westmann Isles, or the banks of the Joliba, or Cyprus, and was departing now, as then, with a purse full of scraps: gold and dust, disasters and wisdom.
Departing, to face what lay before him. He had tried through these weeks to forget it, but there was too much to remind him. From Karaï Mirza, who heard news from everywhere, he had learned of the death of Zacco’s son, the infant ruler of Cyprus, leaving the kingdom to Venice. If Zacco had lived, Nicholas might have sent him his son.
Jodi. Gelis. And Anna. Now he was leaving his mountain, the remorseless clamp of his personal life was closing about him again. Well, if he could propose (in mare’s milk) a strategy for the survival of Eastern Christianity, coupled with the name of the Khan of the Crimea, he could presumably control his own interests. When Abdan Khan, drawing rein, said something about the hermit he had promised to visit, Nicholas felt almost charitable. Whoever wished to cast the first shoulder-blade was welcome to do so, while bearing in mind all that Karaï Mirza had said. His unexploitable talent was fragile and so, this particular morning, was he, Nicholas dismounted, and looked about.
The knobbed limestone heights of Qirq-yer were riddled with caves. Cool and dry, impervious to wind and rain, private or neighbourly in situation and amenable to endless extension, the cave cities of the Crimea shared the qualities of the badger-run and the warren, providing storehouses and homes for generations of inhabitants or — perpetually available, perpetually in repair — a timely refuge for hundreds.
The solitary also esteemed them. As in the desert of Sinai, the early monks had settled here, between cliffs, high above the rest of the world. Nicholas had seen their empty cells, cut in the wooded walls of the ravine which concealed the precipitous path to the citadel. There was a Father Superior’s house, built on a ledge; and a flight of neatly hewn steps led to the narrow façade of a monastery gouged out of the mountain, its hollow windows open to rain, its surface tinted with the faint, unblinking faces of saints, timelessly teased by the joggling green branches. He looked at Abdan Khan. ‘Your shaman dwells here?’
For some reason, the Circassian was angry. He said, ‘These burrows serve many purposes. Holy fools use them, and men whom the Khan does not wish to entertain in the citadel. They also make excellent prisons.’
He was not annoyed with Nicholas, he was annoyed with the Khan. Behind them, the coffer-mules patiently stood, bearing their six modest baskets, and the soldiers’ horses jingled their harness. The men belonged to Abdan Khan and his army at Mánkup. Nicholas said, ‘I know the lord Mengli-Girey. Honest men have nothing to fear from him.’ It was reasonably true, if not of particular relevance. Then he heard a horse neigh somewhere near, to be answered immediately by one of the horses behind him. Among the