Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [294]
Jerott looked at the children, his heart in his throat. Which? The one who had experienced love and a modicum of happiness, or the one who had not. The one whose life had been innocent, or the one who had been earliest corrupted and whose first uncertain steps had just been taken towards his birthright of friendship and joy. To which would he offer the gift of survival … and how had he chosen, knowing nothing? Knowing that the dead child might be his own, and the survivor the child of Gabriel and his sister?
Lymond said, ‘Marthe’
The end of a baby’s life in two syllables. The direction to Marthe, his Queen, to take the Knight in her path.
And the Knight was the child who had not yet known happiness; the child Lymond had drawn to himself. The little boy called Khaireddin, with the bruises still on his body from the nightingale-dealer’s house.
The word broke Philippa, as an iron smashes a lock. Air rushed into her throat and tears blinded her eyes, running over her fingers as she pressed them fast to her lids. She moved then a little way on to the board, towards the light of her life, and then stopped, her lips trembling, as Marthe began her steady walk, a trifle stiffly, towards the small boy at the end. He noticed her coming and Marthe smiled at him faintly, still walking, and said to Philippa as she passed, quietly, ‘Leave him to me.’
So Philippa turned and knelt by Kuzúm, but gently, so that the other child would not see and be hurt, and gathering the child’s bright head in her lap, covered his eyes.
Marthe had almost reached Khaireddin when he became frightened and, his face crumpling, suddenly made towards Francis Crawford. Halfway there he halted, bemused by the look on Lymond’s face and after a moment said in a small voice, ‘I’ve ‘topped being a bad boy. I’ve ‘topped.… Mo chridh is a good little boy now.…’
And at the Gaelic, Jerott said, ‘Dear God in Heaven,’ and looked away from Francis Crawford, whose face was that of a man tortured with thirst, or lack of air, or the bitterest hunger. Then Jerott saw that the mutes were closing in, and that in a moment the child would reach Francis’s arms, and he began to run, to spare him the last terrible betrayal.
But Míkál got there first, and swept the child into his own embrace, all carnation and jasmine and soft hair and bright tinkling jewels. ‘Come, my love,’ said Míkál, ‘and say goodnight to the dark.’ And held him close, full of a sweet young compassion, as the little boy died.
Francis Crawford, who had commanded it, watched the killing take place. His belly heaving, Jerott kept his eyes there as well, for what Francis saw he must know, although he hardly knew why. They had used a knife, so the child’s face was not distorted: Míkál, when it was over, laid him down and wiped a trace of blood from the small lips. Then he lifted Khaireddin again, gently, to carry him out; and Lymond moved swiftly from Jerott’s side to where the fine hair, curling like silk, lay on the Geomaler’s arm; and bending his head, kissed the dead child, as he had not kissed the living, full on the mouth.
Then he turned, Thanatos of the dark underworld claiming his chosen; and walked straight to Gabriel.
Gabriel struggled. He talked and shouted and promised glory and riches, and finally cursed as men seldom venture to curse, the malevolence dripping on to them all as he twisted and rolled in the hands of the mutes. His men did not help him. He spat in Lymond’s face as finally, every limb pinned, helpless as a baron of beef, he stood, his white and gold silk grating against the smooth white and blue of the tiles, while the Kislar Agha, without a word, gave Lymond his sword. It was a good weapon, about four feet long, with the hilt set in perfect gold fish-scales and the sheath sewn with coral and diamonds. There were even a line or two of the Qur’ân engraved on its blade.
Lymond got the mutes to free Gabriel just before he killed