Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [56]
Claes, swathed and propped up with cushions, looked like a plaster cast of a Roman with eyes round as coin-dies. He was getting back his lung power and had just finished giving a very good imitation of what Quilico had said on his last visit, with a lot of Greek swear words. Claes was, Tobie was aware, also memorizing every habit of speech and action that he, Tobie, possessed. It was sometimes quite difficult, talking to Claes, to keep your speech normal.
Now Claes said, “I was trying to get his attention. I didn’t want him to give me an enema. Doctors and dyers are always able to talk about plants. For instance, I might want a hair dye and you might want a love potion. Or the other way round.”
Talking to Claes was like walking in sinking sands. Tobie said, “I hear you were discussing alum. Naturally, of course. Surgeons use it for blood-stopping and dyers for fixing their colour. Do you know, I made a little enquiry. Before the Turks took it over, alum was coming into Florence alone at the rate of three hundred thousand pounds weight a year. For the Arte della Lana. The weavers.”
“Fancy, Master Tobias!” said Claes. He shook his head in an amazed way. He looked happy.
“So?” said Tobias. “Holly, for one. I’ve got a note of the rest. So have you, I am sure. All the plants that grow on the Phocoean alum mines.”
Claes still looked happy. He said, “But that’s a long way away, Master Tobias. On the east of the Middle Sea. Beyond Chios. Beside Smyrna. And the Turks have taken it over. You couldn’t get hair dye from there. Or a love potion.”
Tobias Beneventi was an impatient man, but he could disregard provocation if he had to. He said, “Did he tell you where else these plants grew?”
He waited. He tried to look calm. A few times, Quilico had come to the point. And then had had another drink. And then had slid under the banquette.
“Yes,” said the Charetty apprentice. His eyes had grown a little too bright, but he was smiling still. He said, “But you don’t need a hair dye. And in any case, I’ve already forgotten the name of the place and Master Quilico’s no longer in Bruges. I don’t know whether they told you? He got very drunk, and the commandant was vexed and shipped him out in a carrack for Djerba.”
Tobie said, “Do you know what you’re doing?”
He knew he should stop. He was a doctor. The boy knew enough, too, not to risk losing his grip on himself. He said, “Well, you should know how people rave on their sick beds. You could try me again when I’m well and see if I say the same things.”
“Don’t worry,” said Tobias. “You haven’t said anything. All right. Lie down. I don’t know why I talk to you.”
“Don’t you?” said Claes. His eyes were shut, but he looked quite serene. Even mischievous.
Tobias didn’t go back: there was no need. And in any case, he couldn’t make up his mind what to do about it
In a week Claes was up, and in another he was able to sit downstairs clothed, his lap littered with books and documents, while Julius completed the laborious paperwork resulting from the widow’s purchases. It was during one of those sessions that Felix, scarlet with anger, burst into the room, shouting, “What is this?”
Julius laid down his pen. Claes looked up.
Julius said, “Not now, Felix.”
“You didn’t tell me,” said Felix. “I’ve just heard. You didn’t tell me.” His naked, shallow-set eyes switched from Claes to his mother’s notary and back again. “If you’re going, I’m going,” said Felix in what, if you didn’t know Felix, sounded like a blind affirmation of staunchness and loyalty, but in fact, as Julius well knew, was mostly pique.
Julius said, “Your mother wished to speak to Claes first. Felix, go upstairs. Your mother will talk to you about all this later.”
Claes, who was not of the class to know anything about tact, was looking enquiringly from Julius to his employer’s son instead of continuing quietly with his task. Julius opened his mouth.
“They’re sending you off,” said Felix flatly. “To –”
“Felix!” said his tutor with the finality that Felix did, sometimes obey. Then Julius