Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [122]
‘Until after Zuara,’ said Lymond.
For a moment Güzel was silent. Then: ‘You know?’ she said. With her free hand, sitting erect, she dropped the veil from her face: her grip on the knife did not waver. Then she looked up and saw the mockery plain in his eyes. ‘Wasn’t I meant to know?’ he said. ‘I thought that was the whole intention.’
Her brown eyes narrowed. ‘Nothing must jeopardize the Aga Morat’s counter-attack.’
‘Of course,’ said Lymond. ‘The Knights’ attack on Zuara must fail. But equally, they must realize the cause of their failure. Islam has perceived, has it not, that Graham Reid Malett cannot be of use to it much longer as a Knight of St John. Once his treachery is exposed to his fellow Knights he has no alternative. Spain, France, Scotland, England are all closed to him. Only the Ottoman world is left open. And there he will go.’
‘So it is hoped,’ said Güzel. ‘Turn and ride back.’
Francis Crawford reined in. Under her knife she saw his shirt reddened where the blade had fretted, a little, with the movement of riding. He said, ‘Kiaya Khátún, the peaches of immortality ripen only once every three thousand years. Sooner or later we die. If it happens to me here and now, nothing will alter. Only Mr Blyth will do what has to be done.’
For a long moment she faced him. Behind, she heard Jerott rein and begin to trot back. The shadows were long. ‘Yes. You have courage,’ she said; and twisting, her arm raised like a butcher’s, she plunged her blade deep in the neck of his horse.
She felt him take a breath then. He kicked his stirrups free as the blood spurted and, grasping her, pulled them both clear as the beast fell. She sat up as Jerott, after a look, dismounted and dispatched it with his sword. ‘You will leave me here,’ said Kiaya Khátún, with composure. ‘I believe with one horse you will still reach your ship, and I in turn know my way to find help. The Dauphiné will be set free as you ask, with no harm to your friends.’
Jerott, looking from Lymond’s stained shirt to the horse’s carcase, was brief. ‘Take her up in the saddle. I’ll run beside you.’
‘No. I believe her,’ said Lymond. Rising, he gave her his hand, and as she stood, studied her, from the Greek nose to the luminous, clever brown eyes. ‘I think we are too late. Are we?’
The pitch-pine torch from the castle was the signal,’ said Güzel. ‘And the equestrian display was meant to deceive. The fleet of the Knights of St John is within a day’s sail of Zuara, and the Aga Morat’s men under their captain left before dawn to take up their stance.’
Standing still, he had not freed her hand. ‘You do not like Gabriel,’ he said; and Kiaya Khátún, smiling a little, examined him coolly in turn.
‘I like whom Dragut Rais likes,’ said Güzel. ‘Where it does not displease Dragut—may Allah protect you.’ And, unsmiling, she stood on the sand and watched Lymond move off, with Jerott riding pillion behind.
Minutes later, they stopped at the shore. The skiff they found awaiting them had two pairs of oars and took them, at Lymond’s killing pace, over darkening waters to the little hired brigantine. Archie Abernethy was on board. As they pulled the shallop in, Lymond walked to the poop giving orders interwoven with English for Archie or Jerott. They were to make straight for Zuara.
Within minutes the anchor was up, and then the striped mainsail filled and she moved off, silently, without lights or ensign under a bravery of stars. Then Lymond, crossing to where Abernethy sat on a hatch, dropped beside him and remained there, head bent, elbows on knees; his knuckled hands sealing his mouth.
Archie said nothing. Jerott, seated with his back to the mast, felt his head roll to one side, opened his eyes and sat up. His back ached. Lymond said, still without moving, ‘Tell me about Philippa.’
Archie Abernethy had been waiting for it. He had been dreading it all the way from Zakynthos, from ship to ship and mule to mule and mile to mile of that hurried, frustrating journey. He said, ‘She’s all right. I’ll tell you later. Why not go