Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [260]
Today it was cold; and there were braziers among the pale stones, where you could take your pieces of meat straight from the butcher, and have them skewered and roasted: the smell of hot mutton, pushed by the sea winds, floated among the drift of idlers who were watching a company of seraglio Ajémoghláns on horseback taking part in a wild and dangerous game of Djirit, their four-foot white wands stabbing, vicious as spears. The story-teller had been placed in state near one of the braziers, and the crowd increased; for he was now well known for his marvellous tales in the ancient tradition as well as for new ones of his own, which, like the silk-moth, he spun strand by strand without effort, filled with delicate wonders.
A man, then, of poetic imagination. But could one reconcile that, thought Jerott Blyth, on the edge of the crowd, with a man who could kill as Lymond had killed in Algiers; who could plan and act without mercy? He shrugged, inside his long fur-lined coat, and sent his Janissary over to buy a skewer of meat.
Ishiq came up, bowl in hand, a few seconds later. Jerott dropped in his coins. ‘Tell him,’ he said, ‘that the girl has not come back from Topkapi, and that according to the Seraglio she has been invited to stay longer to put the spinet fully in order. We have had no direct message from Marthe herself.’ He grinned at Ishiq; a happy slave, who had no doubts about his master, and the boy, calling Allah to bless him, also grinned and ran off. In the background, Lymond’s voice rose and fell in its beautiful Turkish: behind hood and beard and blindfolding bandage, Jerott could make nothing at all of his face. Then the Janissary came back, and Jerott stayed, chewing, till the skewer was empty and the begging-bowl came round for the second time.
In the bottom of the bowl was a screw of paper, half buried by small silver coins. This time Jerott plaintively refused a second donation but, as the bowl was thrust at him a second time and a third, he fished reluctantly in his purse at length, and put in an asper.
The paper came up, neatly unseen in the palm of his hand. It held only one word in English: Proceed.
On the other side of the city a Geomaler with a lyre wandered sleepily into Constantine’s Palace and serenaded the lions, until the assistant keeper turned him rudely out. He left behind him a menagerie of restless animals and a small twist of paper on the broken mosaic floor, which the under keeper picked up and kept. Untwisted, it also held the same word in English: Proceed.
Within the damp, inhospitable walls of Gaultier’s house the owner passed his days nursing his suppurating arm and his useless well both, in a fury of impatience, awaiting his niece’s return. Pierre Gilles, sitting philosophically wrapped in a blanket and endlessly writing up his blurred Latin inventories, had long ago given up reasoned argument; and was all the more glad to see Jerott Blyth’s face when at last he called on them, his Janissary as always outside.
To Jerott’s story, Gilles responded with a frowning concern: he stared back at the speaker, thinking, while Gaultier exploded into a frenzy of angry demands. The girl had gone to Topkapi; had carried out their part of the bargain. Now it was for Jerott to carry out his. Bring back the boat, so that they could obtain what was theirs. Did he realize how long it would take to empty that chamber and ferry its contents back into the house? If something had gone wrong: if the girl was in trouble: at any moment the Bostanji Bashi’s henchmen might come …
Gilles cut into it. ‘How long has she been in the Seraglio?’
‘Four days,’ said Jerott.
Pierre Gilles looked at him. ‘Four days without sleep will not improve your chances of aiding her,’ he said dryly. ‘If she requires aid. Does your Ambassadorial friend see something sinister in this delay?’
Jerott said, ‘I don’t know. He hasn’t allowed it to affect his plans.’
‘But you say there is no love lost between