Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [121]
Jerott drew back his arm. His horse was tired. He kicked it on and got the mark in his eye, his fingers tightening, just as it came to him why this escape was necessary … why nothing and no one would be allowed to stand now between Francis Crawford and whatever was about to happen at Zuara.…
It was because Gabriel would be there.
In the Aga Morat’s pavilion, no one spoke. Side by side, the two horsemen approached the heap of sand with the mark, now a little askew, and not so plain in the low-slanting sun. Lymond shot first, his arm in its white sleeve brushing back into the steely interstice once, twice and a third time; before he stopped, Jerott had begun. Watching, Kiaya Khátún thought she saw the point of a blade stir as he shot; but it was true; as true as Lymond’s, and, without pausing, he shot twice more and then smoothly twisted and let fly again, backwards, passing the mark. Kiaya Khátún heard the shout which told that Lymond had completed his six shots, and then, under her gaze, Jerott also released his sixth and last arrow and the shout rose again. He was smiling.
Lymond, glancing across at him briefly, did not smile. Slackening speed, he had slung his bow and one by one, deftly, had disengaged the swords from his saddle. They flashed and fell, clapping, dancing, pirouetting, until there was only one left in his hand. Then, assuming that Jerott was doing the same, Lymond gathered his reins and set his horse straight at the centre of the Aga Morat’s tent.
Güzel saw him coming. Before the Aga, she was on her feet, stumbling on the cushions: she had hardly moved a yard before the horse was among them, and Lymond, slithering down from the saddle, had gripped her and flung her on the mare’s back. She curled like an eel, sliding over and down to escape on the other side when Jerott, still mounted, grasped and bodily held her. Then Lymond in the saddle again thrust her before him and, slitting with the point of his sword through the screen of silk backing the tent, lowered his head and burst through, Jerott following.
Crushed side-saddle in front of him, her head under his chin, her fists gripping his waist, Güzel heard the uproar about them; the Aga Morat’s scream; the pounding of feet and the shouts of the guards. Arrows flicked into the sand, but not too close: they had realized, she thought, that to shoot might mean killing Dragut Rais’s mistress. And no one within two hundred yards had a mount.… She said, ‘You will never get over the causeway.’
‘We are not going to the causeway,’ said Lymond. And indeed, he was driving his horse north, past the palace, leaving the dusky sky on their left. North, to the sands and the sea.
‘You have a ship?’
‘We have a ship,’ agreed Lymond. ‘You will not sail on her. You will remain in a safe place until the Aga Morat agrees to our terms: to release the Dauphiné and allow her to sail with all our company, our money and our furnishings quite unharmed. He will do it. He has no desire to offend Dragut Rais.’ He twisted round then speaking quickly to Jerott; changed direction and moved on to grass.
We are out of sight, she said to herself. And he is throwing them off the trail. Against her cheek he was breathing deeply and regularly: she could have counted the beats of his heart; quicker than hers, after all his exertion; but perfectly steady. She said, shifting a little, ‘I have no desire to offend Dragut Rais either. Turn back.’ And with the little knife from her sleeve she slit the silk over his heart, and the linen beneath it, and held it there, point down. She could see her veiled face in the blade.
His heart-beat did not alter. ‘Jerott would shoot you.’
‘But not before the knife has gone home. Turn back.’
‘To allow the Aga Morat to knife me?’
‘He will not touch you,’ said Kiaya Khátún. ‘We have