Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [111]
‘He goes under guard,’ she said. ‘But like the camel who cannot govern his appetite and will perish in clover, still always he goes.’
‘And comes back,’ said Lymond agreeably, just behind her.
She turned. Jerott heard a single, sharp intake of breath; but her impassive face gave nothing away. Lymond, equally still, with the faint light touching his hair and the disordered white shirt and European breech-hose he was wearing, stared her full in the face, wide-eyed and unblinking, for a long moment; and then, stretching one negligent arm, let fall through his fingers a small sprinkling of white, shabby petals. ‘Don’t throw them away,’ he said, in the same pleasant voice. ‘You may need them.’
‘You were outside the walls?’ said Jerott. He wondered how much Lymond had heard. He found also he actually wanted to be sick. Without answering, Lymond said briefly to Marthe, ‘Let him go.’
‘That was my intention,’ said Marthe. She added, her voice clear as a diamond, ‘But first he is anxious to know where you have been.’
‘In that case he will, I am afraid, remain anxious,’ said Lymond. ‘Assai sa, chi nulla sa, se tacer’ sa, so to speak. Furthermore, if we are to have enlightenment, I propose that we have general enlightenment. Will you call Kiaya Khátún, or shall I?’
A little silence fell. The heavy gold plait, loosened by some light humidity of her skin, had begun to unfurl over Marthe’s shoulder: the sheen of it, pulled slanting over her brow, gave to her eyes underneath a shadowed, fey quality, disturbing and troubled. She said, ‘Do what you wish. I don’t care.’
‘But I do,’ said Lymond. ‘I know you are bitter. I won’t believe you are jealous.’
Marthe broke into laughter. Flinging back her head she laughed, open-throated: genuine laughter, with a thread of hysteria somewhere behind it. The little petals, unregarded, tumbled down the folds of her robe to the ground. When she could speak: ‘I don’t want Jerott Blyth!’ she exclaimed.
‘Be quiet!’ For the first time, Lymond’s soft voice bit. ‘I know that. I spoke of something quite different.’
Jerott was trying to get away, blindly, like a man stumbled on devils. It was Marthe, he realized, who, changing place swiftly, had blocked his exit, and Lymond who, now stepping back, said quickly, ‘Go to bed. Forget what you’ve heard.’
Jerott stopped. Marthe said, in the identical soft voice, ‘Yes, go to bed, Jerott. But first embrace your master goodnight. Or take his hand. Or lay your head, if you can, on his shoulder. Why do you think he is careful tonight to stand off from you? Because, my dear Blyth, if you go near him, you will know where he has been.’
Jerott paused. In front of him, Lymond had not moved. To pass him, there was no need to approach closely. If he so wished, in his turn, Lymond had only to move backwards to avoid any contact at all. But he stood still and continued to stand still as, drawn by the girl’s hatred, and his own hurt and resentment, Jerott walked along the flower-strewn wall, slowly, closer and closer until, with a flash of his hand, he was able to grip Lymond hard by the arm.
There was no need to speak. Lymond’s blue eyes, narrowed and filled with a kind of weary distaste, stared back into Jerott’s, and Jerott, his fingers and thumb closing on skin and bone, blood and muscle and vein like a tourniquet, harder and harder, admitted to his understanding at last what his heart had already guessed.
Plain in the perfumed night; strident over the soft odours of trees and flowers and cirtons, the scents of sweet basil and spikenard rose from Lymond’s moist skin.
Braced though he was, the violence with which Jerott, turning, flung him off forced Lymond to step back to steady himself. Watching the other man stride down the steps and into the garden: ‘I am no longer Superintendent of the Five Cereals,’ murmured Lymond. He turned, the cold mockery back in his eyes, and stared into Marthe’s impassive face.
‘I love you not.… Oh, I love you not,