Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [216]
It was Kuzucuyum. Oblivious of all but that round, stiffened face, staring terror-struck at the bright room filled with glittering strangers, Philippa stood stock still at the window, her own shock and apprehension measuring every millimetre of his. The Usher, whom he did not know, was urging the little boy forward, a hand on his flat back, but Kuzúm hung back, his face lengthening, his blue eyes dense and enormous. ‘Come, child,’ said Jubrael Pasha, irritation crumbling, for an instant, the patina of that beautiful voice. ‘Conduct yourself as you should. Make your obeisances, quickly.’
‘He doesn’t know Turkish,’ whispered Philippa. Khourrém Sultán, watching her curiously, had returned and was standing also, observing. The child looked round. The Usher, losing patience, said something sharply and pushed. Again the child looked round, his eyes desperate; and Philippa knew he was looking for her. The temptation to call became so strong that she put both hands, hard, over her mouth. Then he crept forward, very slowly, and kissed Gabriel’s feet, and then gripped and kissed the hem of his robe. He kissed properly: solid kisses which could be heard; and then, straightening the flat, leaf-green back, looked up at Gabriel with anxiety, his eyes filled with tears he would not let himself shed.
But Gabriel’s smiling blue eyes were elsewhere: on Francis Crawford, who had become quite still when he saw the small boy, and remained as timelessly still as the worn, martyred dead on the Ortokapi, his eyes fixed on the child. Then when, stubborn and obedient, the little boy made his grovelling gesture, Philippa saw Lymond’s eyes come up and meet and hold Malett’s.
Graham Malett smiled back, as he spoke again to the child. ‘There is the Ambassador. Salute him,’ he said.
Let him go, said Philippa to herself. Oh, let him go. He’s done all you can ask him.…
‘The Ambassador begs to be excused,’ said Lymond quietly, in English. And to the child he said, in the same language, ‘Tell me: what is your name?’
Kuzucuyum stared at the stranger, his lower lip straight and tight, his eyes round; his eyebrows tilting. Then in a whisper, he said, ‘What did Fippy went?’
In English. In English, merciful heaven, thought Philippa, so that Lymond knew and took one step forward and stopped himself, as Gabriel rapped out, ‘Do your duty!’ and the Chiaus gripped Kuzúm by the arm.
He was two years old: maybe less. A woman would have known he was beyond coaxing: coercion was the last straw. Lymond stepped back instantly, but this time the child did not obey. He dragged behind, his mouth trembling, and when the Chiaus’s silver rod, with an order, came down hard on his knuckles, he screamed, and continued to scream in long, whooping cries, crouched under the arm of the Usher, his eyes closed, his tears pouring over his two fat clenched hands and rolling black on the silk. Gabriel stared at the Chiaus. ‘This is an insult to the Ambassador,’ said the new Vizier bitingly. ‘Take him away. He shall be whipped on the belly.’
‘As the injured party,’ said Lymond steadily, ‘I am happy to overlook the offence and absolve him from punishment. He would be unlikely, at that age, to survive it. On the other hand, I should be delighted to buy him from you.’
‘I thought you might. He is endearing, is he not?’ said Gabriel. ‘When silent. But not, I fear, at any time or any price, for sale to Your Excellency. Now’—as the screaming receded and powerful arms bore the child struggling from the Divan—‘shall we eat?’
Khourrém Sultan’s rose-painted fingers, closing on her bare arm, pulled Philippa up short just inside the Divan tower door. ‘Wait,’ said Roxelana;