Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [270]
Lymond hadn’t waited to see the outcome of that. A little before he had glimpsed, dimly lit by the torches, a tall swing of the kind common to Stamboul festivals, its seat at street level, its harness high in the rooftops. He reached it, still running lightly, and tipping out the hilarious occupier sprang on the seat. He worked it like a trapeze, twisting slightly and sending it hard and fast into the sky until, just as his pursuers rounded the corner, he let go.
He landed precisely as he planned on all fours on the rooftops and, sliding along, was three streets away while the Janissaries were still pelting in confusion below. Then, anonymous under his hood, he slowed up and, stepping down into an air free of all tinge of geranium, made his way through the dark streets towards the black arching aqueduct of Valens. There, he let himself quietly into the house of Míkál and, pulling off robe and hood, threaded his way swiftly through Míkál’s cheerful companions and up to his room.
Míkál was there already, sleek as a fawn on his cushions, dreamily touching his lute, his brilliant eyes lighting with pleasure. ‘Hâkim!’
Beside him was Gabriel.
‘My dear Francis!’ Gently ridiculing, the mellow voice spoke. ‘What an expense of energy for a rather warm evening. If you had simply restrained yourself and trusted my Janissaries, they would have brought you straight here in the first place.’
He almost paid for his malice. The knife was in Lymond’s hand before Graham Malett started to speak: quicker than thought his wrist rose to flick it and was caught, agonizingly, by a great fist from behind, followed instantly by the grasp of three or four men, crowding in through the doorway. Lymond twisted, his head down and using his feet, but although they swore at him and one fell back, moaning over his arm, the grip on him only intensified. They were, he saw, all Míkál’s friends. The giant of the sheep-bone held his right hand and ripped the knife from it, drawing blood, idly, down his arm with the blade. Then he was dragged erect, to stand before Gabriel.
His clothes torn, his hair damply ravelled, his body and face marked with his handling, Lymond looked bright-eyed at the two on the cushions. ‘Why, Míkál?’ he said.
A shade of sadness crossed the wild, hollow face. ‘It is laid on me by love,’ said Míkál. ‘As a cord of twisted bark bound upon the neck of each ploughing bull, I waded to thee through darkness, as though I waded through a full sea; but thou didst not receive me. I stood in darkness, with fear my innermost garment, and thou didst not warm me. Soon the devil thou dost swallow will claim thee, and where shall I be? I am a Pilgrim of Love, Hâkim; and thy soul is of rock.’
Lymond spoke quietly. ‘One man who sells another, whatever the coin, is a traitor. Like the sons of Ghudáneh, you are not indeed gold, nor silver, nor pure silver, Míkál; but you are pottery.’
‘If we have reached a breathing-space in your recriminations?’ asked Gabriel amiably. He was wearing no turban; his short golden hair glittered bright in the lamplight and the spreading folds of his stiff Turkish robe were edged and lined with shining dark sables. ‘I have some business elsewhere to attend to. I find it quite astonishing that you apparently had hopes of defying me, here on my home ground. They are waiting for you at the Seraglio. Míkál?’
‘They are ready,’ said Míkál, and clapped his hands, smiling.
With a force which pulled him off balance, Lymond was wrenched to one side by his captors. He regained his feet instantly and stood, his hands held hard at his