Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [242]
‘Get out,’ said Lymond. His voice shook: whether with reaction or rage or opiates hardly mattered. Jerott had never seen him so uncontrollably angry. ‘Get out and stay out, you blundering sheep.…’
‘Try and keep me,’ said Jerott, his face white, and swung on his heel.
‘Wait,’ Lymond ejaculated. He took two steps forward and stopped, his eyes still wild with anger. ‘What else have you done? How did you find me?’
‘He followed the child,’ said Míkál deprecatingly. Jerott, shouldering past him, did not reply. He was half-way across the dark room on his way out of the house when the curtain behind him was ripped off completely and his own shadow sprang up before him, black on a lit square of light. He paid no attention. He flung the second door open, his left hand on the doorpost. There was a flash, and a spark arched through the dark and stayed, quivering, between the spreadeagled fingers of his left hand.
It was Lymond’s knife; thrown by Lymond, who following it noiselessly and almost as fast stood now behind Jerott and said viciously, ‘Opium or not, I can still throw a knife. Next time it will be through the thick of your hand. ‘Turn and go back.’
Seen close at hand, the pupils of both his eyes were like pinpricks. ‘To hell with you,’ said Jerott, and snatched at the knife. Lymond’s long fingers, streaking past, got there just before him. Then the knife was gone, flung across the length of the room and Jerott’s right hand was dangling, numbed by a blow on the wrist.
Turn and go back,’ said Lymond, his face livid still. That house was watched. This house will now be watched. Míkál, you are a fool. Had you waited, you would have discovered he is besotted over a woman. Go and find out, if you can, whether Mr Blyth has been followed. Jerott, get into that room.’
Míkál’s immense eyes were appealing; his manner placatory. He said, ‘Efendi … the child is due back to Názik in five minutes.…’
Lymond stopped dead. For a moment he stared at Míkál, then very slowly he turned and walked back to the threshold of the candlelit room, and moved a little inside. Jerott followed.
The child was crouched in a corner, as far away as he could reach. He had been weeping, but silently. When his client came in—his client who had thrown a great knife—Khaireddin rose, his nose red in his waxen white face with the great rings round the distracted blue eyes. He rose and, walking shakily over to Francis Crawford, reached up and stroked the hand which had thrown the big knife. Then holding it in trembling hands, his eye sideways, he laid it against his wet cheek. ‘Beautiful Hâkim: give me thy kisses.… ’
He stopped gasping as the man’s hand was wrenched back from his small ones; and began to sob helplessly, without looking up. ‘I am good,’ said Khaireddin. ‘Oh, I am good. I will eat. I have stopped being naughty. Give me kisses, Hâkim.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Jerott; and turned his back. He knew Lymond was kneeling. He heard him take a long, soft breath and expel it; and then take another. With that he spoke to the child, his voice low but level and friendly. ‘Thou art good. Men quarrel, and are friends. Thou and I are friends without quarrelling.…’
Jerott looked round. The child, level with the kneeling man, had moved nearer, his eyes wide, his face uplifted as if to embrace him. Before he could touch him, Lymond rose, and, looking down, smiled. ‘Keep thy kisses. Thou art almost a man; and a man chooses to kiss only the persons he loves. Then thy kiss will be a big gift indeed.… It is time to go. Míkál’s friends will go with thee.’
‘I am good?’ said the strained treble.
‘Thou art good,’ said Francis Crawford in a dry voice; and looking up, watched as Míkál slipped from the doorway to take the tired child away.
‘There