Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [273]
‘I thought it possible,’ the Greek said. His voice was thin, but his deep gaze was steady and clear.
‘And you arranged for the wagon to break, to leave me behind? Why?’
‘A whim,’ the Greek said. His whitened lips in his grizzled beard moved a little. ‘I am old. My life is my own. If we are given a few moments together, I might say more to you. I have a drug that would help in my purse. Sadly, that is under the horse.’
‘Is there a difficulty?’ Nicholas said. He spoke lightly, for by then he knew what he was dealing with. He also knew that Acciajuoli was an expert in opiates. On the day Anna was stabbed, the Greek had provided him with the respite he needed. He owed him something for that.
The horse presented another problem of leverage, but not so simple when single-handed in every sense and still losing blood. Nicholas stopped twice to let his eyes clear, but eventually it was done; the horse was raised, and the man pulled clear and laid on his cloak in the shade. Then Nicholas turned back his mantle.
Acciajuoli had been right. By itself, the weight of the horse might not have mattered: one leg was broken, but the other, which had taken the brunt, was intact, being fashioned of wood. His life was ending not because of the horse, but from the depth of the single stab wound in his body, evidently inflicted in haste. Perhaps, seeing his face, someone had realised that he was not the man they expected. Perhaps, afraid, their ambushers had made good their escape, assured that he could not live long.
He lay with his eyes closed while Nicholas did what he could. His horse, tied and covered, drooped nearby. The bees dispersed and were replaced by bluebottles, in buzzing indigo quilts. The purse was glazed with blood and squashed flat, but the kidskin packet with its powder was still intact inside. Nicholas brought water and, kneeling, spoke, causing the heavy patrician lids to make the effort to lift. ‘I have what you asked for.’
He obeyed the directions he was given, having neither the insolence nor the inhumanity to question them. The first dose would bring relief for a short while; the second would kill. After that, the Greek said, Nicholas was to pull what he could into the houses and set them on fire, so that none would know that Nicholas himself had escaped. He asked, as the pain started to dull, about Nicholas’s own useless arm, and Nicholas told him, making him frown. ‘There, too! But poor men will do anything, given money.’
They had half an hour together, perhaps, as evening drew towards night, and the sky above them turned through all the pale, silky colours to opal. The Greek lay, a saddle for pillow, with his hair loose and the ermine drawn over his body, and Nicholas sat at his side, propped by the vast base of a tree. With proper bandaging and a sling, his own bleeding had stopped. He knew he must take what rest he could, for he could not stay here once it was over. His safety depended on his being thought to be dead. At the moment, it did not seem greatly to matter, in face of the service the other man had taken upon himself to perform. He had asked why. ‘We are not related?’
The Greek’s amusement had shown in his eyes. ‘With what private misgiving you say it! No, Niccolò. We may be so, of course, in the future, but my present concern is merely to preserve for the world those boyish talents you have displayed so profusely since we first met. Eighteen, were you not? So uncouth!’
‘I am sorry,’ Nicholas said, also briefly amused.
‘Oh, that is of course no longer so, or you would not be attracting this attention. It is as well that I heard a rumour of ambush. Now it is over, you will find that you make a quick journey. Ghosts travel fast.’ He fell silent, breathing quickly, but holding Nicholas still with his large, soft, cynical eye.
Nicholas said, ‘There is no need to talk.’
‘Perhaps not,’ the Greek said. ‘But I should like to spend my last moments in some form