Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [171]
It had not come, he realized, because Lymond’s judgement of what men could or could not bear was seldom at fault. At intervals also, they had stopped to put ashore or pick up Salablanca or Onophrion or one of the officers to make inquiries. They knew the route the Children of Devshirmé had followed, but the route Philippa had taken with her group of young men was different. Here and there, on the coast, they had picked up traces of her and once, outside Volos, Onophrion had returned with the skiff full of villagers, their arms full of bread and baskets of honey and fruit, whom Lymond had asked on board.
They had brought lute and viols with them and danced on the poop till the sun sank in the sea, and Onophrion set a feast for them under a still, starry sky, with candles burning overhead in the sheets. There had been a little girl, a bride of no more than thirteen, with great silver shoe-buckles hung in her ears, who had caught Lymond’s attention, Gaultier saw; and the royal Envoy crossed over to admire them and speak to her.
He had not been the only man watching Lymond. As the girl smiled and Lymond got up to leave her, a slender figure walked out of the shadows: a young man with long, wet hair and a remarkable face, slanting-browed and hollow-cheeked with the narrow jaw and wide, sensual mouth of the Slav. He wore a loose purple tunic, streaming with sea-water, and no adornment but his grace: Georges Gaultier, who loved beautiful things, watched him enchanted. Now, face to face with Francis Crawford, he had chosen a moment when the other man was not surrounded: was in fact out of earshot of everyone but Georges Gaultier, still sitting forgotten near by. They confronted each other in the moonlight, the fair-haired and the dark; and the young man drew a long breath and smiled, his white teeth gleaming, his long lashes veiling his eyes. O áshiq Pasha … they had not told me thou wert …’
‘… eligible? I am not,’ said Lymond without heat. ‘You are Míkál?’
The teeth flashed. ‘Thou hast heard of me? And yet I am without the bells.’
‘There are other forms of identification,’ said Lymond. ‘Where is Philippa Somerville?’
‘I come to tell thee,’ said the boy Míkál in his musical voice. ‘We sit, yes? Philippa Khátún spoke much of thee. And the child of thine she must find. She says the mother is dead, and thou hast no lady now.’
‘A reasonably accurate assessment of my plight,’ said Lymond agreeably.
‘Then thou hast need of a friend. I am thy friend,’ said Míkál. He looked through his lashes and must have seen, as Gaultier saw, the quickly suppressed flash of laughter in Lymond’s eyes, for he suddenly laughed himself, in his clear voice, and added, ‘Within limits?’
‘Within limits,’ Lymond agreed; and, moving for the first time, dropped lightly to sit on the other side of the hatch-cover against which Míkál was reclining. ‘And especially if you will tell me where Philippa Khátún is.’
‘I cannot tell thee where she is, but I know where she goes. She found the little child, which was taken from Marino Donati’s house in Zakynthos—thou knowest Marino Donati is dead?’
‘Yes,’ said Lymond.
‘Good riddance,’ said Míkál cheerfully; and blew an extravagant kiss. ‘And the sister too: dead at Thessalonika just after Philippa Khátún had met her. So they gave Philippa Khátún the care of the child.’
From his light-gilded hair to the rings on his clasped hands, Lymond had become very still. ‘Donati’s sister? Do you by any chance mean Evangelista Donati?’
‘It is right,’ said Míkál. ‘She was taking the child, so they said, to Stamboul with the Children. Now Philippa Khátúm will take it instead.’
‘But … did she not try to buy it?’ asked Lymond. ‘Did she not ask your help?’
Míkál shrugged his elegant shoulders. ‘They would not sell. And as for helping her—this a man of war might have done. Thyself, hadst thou been here. But we, Crawford Efendi,