Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [172]
‘I am not yet quite clear about this,’ said Lymond; and Gaultier, listening, recognized without difficulty the tone of his voice. ‘Philippa Khátúm failed to purchase the child, and was unable, without your help, to take it away. She therefore stayed with it and, no doubt, the rest of the Children when they left Thessalonika? Then where is she now?’
‘At Stamboul, perhaps,’ said Míkál. ‘Or Constantinople, as many still call it.… It does not take long. Perhaps three weeks, if they make many stops. Or they may have sent her ahead with the child. Yes, in Stamboul assuredly, I should think.’
‘I see. Then, if they refused to sell the child, it presumably is now in the Seraglio. And Philippa Khátúm, I should hope, is in the French Ambassador’s house, awaiting me. Do you think this is so?’
‘No,’ said Míkál. ‘How could she protect the child from an Ambassador’s house? There are assassins, she says, who will kill the child when the man for whom he is hostage dies by thy hand.… Is that true?’
‘It is true,’ said Lymond. ‘And he is dead.’
‘So. How could she take him to Stamboul and still not protect him? Not so. It is arranged instead that she will go with him, where no assassin or any harm can touch either. Is it not well done?’
‘I’ll tell you that in a moment,’ said Lymond. ‘Where is she going?’
‘To the Sultan’s Seraglio,’ said Míkál simply.
‘Oh, Christ,’ Lymond said.
There was a long silence. ‘Thou art distressed, Efendi?’ asked Míkál at length, soothingly. ‘She will live like a queen. In her own country she has no husband, no riches, no palace?’
‘You are perfectly correct,’ said Lymond. ‘It would also be hard to find three possessions she would find more ridiculous. Was this by any chance the woman Donati’s idea?’
‘I think it likely,’ said Míkál peacefully; and Gaultier, glimpsing Lymond’s face in the moonlight, swore under his breath. Tomorrow, more ruthless sailing; more of this total indifference towards the rights and requirements of his fellow-passengers. Salablanca was a nigger and used to it; Onophrion was a servile old woman by nature. Gaultier was finding it more and more hard to put up with it. He got up and already was moving away as Onophrion came forward to tell Lymond that their guests were now disembarking.
Míkál stayed where he was; but Lymond rose to give the villagers his last greetings and watch them climb down into the two boats: their own, and the Dauphiné’s caique, with Onophrion officiously in the bows, which was to take back those who had swum, like Míkál, to the galley.
Gaultier noticed that Míkál was still not among them. He saw the two boats cast off, with Onophrion’s high-pitched voice floating over the water, and turned back, enjoying the quiet now that the flutes and lyres and tambourines had stopped, and there were only the quiet sounds of the ship settling down for the night. After a while, he made his way to the ladder which led down to his room and was about to descend when he saw Lymond, who had been speaking to the patron, walk back to the hatch where he had been sitting with Míkál. Gaultier paused. He heard Lymond say, in his clear speaking-voice, ‘I am sailing to Thessalonika, to obtain a licence from the Viceroy to buy back Philippa Khátún and the child, if I can. If they are not yet in Constantinople, it might work. If they are already in the Sublime Porte, then I shall make submissions to Suleiman.’
Míkál’s voice was gentle. ‘You will use the name of France to redeem your son and the maiden?’
‘To redeem these two children,’ said Lymond concisely, ‘I would use the names of Prester John and Antiochus Tibertus and even that of Güzel Kiaya Khátún.’
‘Who is she?’ said Míkál.
‘You must ask her, next time you meet her,’ said Lymond, and lifted his eyebrows as Míkál got to his feet. The candles flared. For a moment, both men facing each other were illuminated in brilliant light: Gaultier could see the flat, fluted back of Lymond’s fine doublet, and Mík