Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [102]
‘I don’t know. But he does have something more to tell me. And I’ve found out something else. Gabriel is selling information to the Turks, probably through Marino Donati.’
‘Sir Graham Malett? From Malta?’ said Archie. ‘How?’
‘He didn’t say,’ said Philippa, her brown eyes shining. ‘But I think I can guess. Sheemy, where’s the Sicilian merchant?’
‘On board his ship, I expect,’ said Sheemy, surprised. ‘D’you want him?’
‘No. But I want his bill of lading,’ said Philippa.
The dragoman, unsurprised, nodded his head. ‘Secret writing? Consider it done.’
He brought it to them that evening, in the blue house by the harbour, which turned out to be a lodging-house, of which Ziadat was the owner. Míkál, on inquiry, was out. Philippa, heavily aware that, sooner or later, she would have to get used to communal sleeping arrangements, dumped her mattress, newly bought in the market, along with Archie’s, Sheemy’s and two others in one of the small rooms. Then, before any others came in, she bespoke a candle and, with the two men peering behind her, held the bill of lading close to the flame.
Between the lines of the clerk’s black irregular script a brown tracery began to appear, deepening in the heat to form even lines of palimpsest writing in an educated hand. The language was Italian; the writer was clearly Marino Donati.
The code was an easy one too. They broke it in ten minutes, Sheemy dictating while Philippa wrote it down with her tongue out. When it was finished, they read it in silence.
Your news coming Strozzi attack Zuara received and passed on. Aga Morat will counter. Distinguish yourself blue panache.… There followed an inquiry about the new defence at St Elmo. The last line ran: The Subject is at Djerba, to be held till after Zuara. The Object goes to Stamboul.
‘The bloody traitor,’ said Archie. He stood up, his broken-nosed face like the bark of an olive tree. ‘Graham Malett. He’s going to stand there and let Leone Strozzi lead the Knights of St John straight into the arms of Morat.… Blue panache, ye bastard!’ said Archie, his black eyes half closed in his cracked face. ‘I’ll be there watching out for the blue panache all right. And I ken someone else who will, too.’
‘The Subject is at Djerba.’ Philippa hadn’t even heard what Archie had said. Instead, trying the final phrases over on her tongue, she repeated them. ‘The Subject is at Djerba. The Object…‘ What did that mean? A routine report, using a code inside the code. Philippa said slowly, ‘Archie …’ and broke off as, just within the rim of her hearing, a brush of high, tinkling sound passed over the noise from outside. ‘Míkál?’ said Philippa, just as the curtain over their doorway was raised with great gentleness to one side.
‘Surely,’ said the dark-haired young man in the violet tunic, and, susurrating silvery music, he walked smoothly in. ‘And these are thy friends?’
Performing the introductions, Philippa was all too conscious of the Geomaler’s dark grey eyes resting on the bill of lading dropped on the table, the interlaced foreign writing plain in the candlelight. Míkál, smiling, bowed. ‘I see thou hast lit on the secret. I have witnessed the signor, often, shading a little paper over a candle. He does not expect simple minds to understand.’
‘I was lucky,’ said Philippa. ‘I’m afraid I opened Signor Donati’s desk on my way through his rooms. There were several packets of bills already treated, but until you talked about Gabriel, I didn’t realize what it meant.’
‘Did I mention Gabriel?’ said Míkál.
‘No. I did. Your purity remains undefiled,’ said Philippa tartly. ‘Whatever happens to Gabriel, if there’s justice, will be my pleasure. We only wanted you to tell us, if you will, about the child.’
She wasn’t feeling casual. It had taken a great deal of nervous energy to defy Archie’s outspoken disbelief and drag him to Zakynthos. His lack of reproaches