Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [225]
It was Francis Crawford, taut and careful, who pulled them together like the children of a beleaguered city and taught them the rules they must follow for their own self-defence. He forced from the Sublime Porte still more Janissaries, and a modest chain of supplies from their benignity to keep the small garrison nourished. The work of the Embassy came to a halt. By the end of a week, and the first morning without incident, hysteria was giving way to antagonism. The new Ambassador had enemies. But for the new Ambassador, none of this nightmare would have happened. M. d’Aramon was approached.
His own preparations to leave had been halted: how could he desert his seat and his flock through this horror? He listened to what his people had to say; and went to find Mr Crawford.
Lymond had been out. His cloak, marked with grime, lay where he had dropped it, and he was standing, as he did not often do now, looking out of the high windows of his room and over the wet roofs of Pera to the grey domes of Stamboul beyond. It was not the first time, d’Aramon knew, that Crawford had left the Embassy, and had succeeded in coming back quite without harm. Alone of the household, it seemed, he could go abroad with impunity or stay at home without mishap. It had been in d’Aramon’s mind to point this out to the uneasy household. Instead, on reflection, he walked into the room and, closing the door, put it to Lymond himself.
‘You think I am behind these outrages?’ Francis Crawford had little patience, these days, with trivia: he turned, and kicking the fallen cloak to one side, moved past it restlessly, to his wide desk and back. ‘Why? To force Suleiman to do what I want, in case France blames him for attacking the Embassy? Not very plausible. As it happens, now untenable.’
‘Why?’ Sometimes one must be blunt.
‘While I was out, a parcel was delivered this morning. It is there.’
M. d’Aramon followed Lymond’s glance to the desk. On it was merely a long packet, wrapped in white silk. The embroidery was Persian. ‘Open it,’ Lymond said.
M. d’Aramon knew what it was, even before his fingers felt the filigree of the casket and his eyes were blinded by what lay within. There was also a letter, signed by Khourrém Sultán and written in a firm hand in very good English. Khourrém Sultán, overturned with the ill fortune which made it impossible for the Ambassador to receive that which was dear to his master, was likewise constrained to return that which would cause her to suffer, daily, a reminder of another’s unhappiness. Close by the seal, someone had inscribed a small, six-pointed star. I’m sorry,’ said M. d’Aramon.
‘You needn’t be,’ said Lymond. He returned to the desk and, taking the letter, placed it back in the casket and covered it. ‘Your reign of terror is over. You came just now, I take it, to ask for my resignation. You have it.’
Into M. d’Aramon’s mind came a memory of a calm voice pronouncing. If my petition is refused … I shall have to use other means.
He said, ‘You say our reign of terror is over. How do you know?’
‘Perhaps you haven’t heard the news?’ said Lymond. The shape of his hand on the casket caught d’Aramon’s wandering gaze. With tension and inadequate food they were all lighter, all blanched like roots in a glasshouse. Francis Crawford said, ‘The vigorous and never successless Suleiman leaves for Scutari today, and thence south. It leaves Graham Malett in undisputed possession. That is why I am resigning.’
And as d’Aramon continued to look doubtful, Lymond smiled. ‘You don’t understand? The attacks were made in order to force me to leave. While I am Ambassador, it is difficult even for Graham Reid Malett to treat me just as he desires. As a discredited fugitive I shall have no one to avenge me.’
‘Then …’ said M. d’Aramon; and gathered firmness. ‘Then you must stay.’
This time, however