Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [45]
“I’ve sent Henninc to join her,” said Julius, frowning to keep his eyes in alignment. “You were right. The ballast was alum from Phocoea. Who told you? The Greek, Nicholai?”
“Oh no, Meester Julius,” said Claes. “The scrivener’s list says the alum is from the Straits, at Castile prices, and I’m sure Monsignore de’ Acciajuoli would agree. That’s what the Venetians were buying. Phocoean alum would be much more expensive.”
“So it would,” said Julius, frowning more deeply. Alum, that white, innocent powder that got dug out of the ground like rock-salt was about the most important ingredient in the world to a dyer, for it bound the colour to the cloth. Claes would know that. All the same, Julius wondered from time to time if Claes understood what he was really saying, as he carried these tales from place to place. It had been unlikely, after all, that the Greek would tell him anything. Claes simply heard things, by virtue of passing from office to office, in a city where artisans were invisible.
Julius said, “Well, you’d better watch out. Our dog-owning Scottish friend Simon is in there with Messer Nicholai and the commander, and it would be just as well if he didn’t lay eyes on you. Also –”
“God save us,” said Claes, with no more than a simple expression of interest. “There’s the captain Lionetto and his friends. They’ve bought a black man.”
Anyone could see they hadn’t bought the black boy, but were merely scrubbing him to see if his colour would come off. Julius, on occasion a man of discernment, said, “Wants a monkey? She wouldn’t stand for it.”
“I expect the price would be too high anyway,” said Claes with optimism. He had continued to gaze at the Guinea slave, who had stopped tugging his chain and was rolling about as the powerful arms of captain Lionetto jabbed at him with a deck swabber. “They’ll have to buy him if they damage him. Unless Felix would like a black boy instead of a monkey. The demoiselle might like that.”
“Felix’s mother?” said Julius. His eyes watered with laughter. He said, “Tell Oudenin the pawnbroker over there. It’ll help his courtship.” Everyone knew that Oudenin had been throwing his daughter at Felix’s head, but really fancied an armful of the widow.
To his surprise, Claes assumed a willing expression, laid down his apron and left him. With disbelief, Julius watched the apprentice squeeze and squirm his way over the deck until he reached the pawnbroker’s side, and there, sitting down, engage him in some sort of artless conversation, in the course of which they both rose.
Whether or not Claes had been talking about Marian de Charetty hardly mattered. As he got to his feet, the soldier Lionetto said, “Hah!” and, gripping a friend on each side, began to force his massive way through the crowd to the apprentice. His ginger velvet and his hair were the same colour.
“Hah!” said Lionetto. “And whose doublet are you staining today, my silly lout? And what fool gave you leave to foul the air of this ship with your stinking rags? You need a wash. Give him one.”
Undoubtedly slowed by the cups of wine he and Henninc had shared, Julius steadied his gaze upon Lionetto’s two cronies who had gripped the apprentice and were beginning, to a general rumble of appreciation, to lift him at the proper angle for a quick dispatch over the side. No one showed any special anxiety on Claes’ behalf, nor indeed did he himself show any positive resentment as he hung, looking mildly astonished, from the soldiers’ muscular grasp. A bald man remarked, in merest commentary, “Maybe he can’t swim.”
Claes could swim, and he needed a bath. Julius pondered the situation, and concluded, hazily, that it was not an emergency. They got Claes under the armpits and swung him back, as the crowd scattered.
They