Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [38]
The felt cap moved, once. ‘It is of no matter. But thou, thou art the prince who offers gold to find a child and a woman?’
‘Yes. You have information?’ said Lymond.
‘I have more,’ said the man. Beyond an avenue of slim pillars they had lit the lamps in the courtyard: against the chevrons of flickering light his face was impassive and blank. ‘I have written word from the woman herself. What dost thou pay?’
‘This,’ said Lymond, and held out the ruby he slipped from his finger. ‘And all I promise if I meet her or the child, alive, as a result.’
A moment later, he held the note in his hands.
Once, long ago in Graham Malett’s white house on Malta, Lymond had received from Jerott’s contemptuous hands a letter written by Oonagh O’Dwyer. Do not come, had said the black, vigorous script. I do not wish to see you.
The writing, unchanged, was still irrefutably hers. But the message this time was different. Addressed to Lymond in his full and correct name and dated the previous day—the day, thought Jerott, when, lying outwith the harbour, they had sent news of their coming to the Viceroy—it said: The day set for our meeting is coming. I am glad, for I have been very tired.… These are poor people to whom gold is small use: do not overwhelm them.… Forget the child ever lived. It has been sold, they told me; but it may be a lie: it failed a lot, they said, after the branding. I do not want you to have him. Your life has been wasted enough.… And, after a space, and written differently, as if on an impulse: I regret nothing save for that fool of a man. And anyway, what good do regrets do?
Below, she signed her name. There was no word of fondness or of recrimination.… She must, thought Jerott, looking out of the side of his eye, have been a strange and powerful woman, this mistress of Lymond’s.
No … not mistress. She had been that to Cormac O’Connor, who wished to be King of all Ireland, and whose dream she had lived until, spoiled and gross, Cormac had lost all his vision and lost her, finally, too. Then Lymond and she had been on opposite sides, Archie Abernethy had told him. What had brought them together was one move, coolly plotted, in some far more vital intrigue. What it had led to was this.
She had no regrets. That was probably true. With the death of her lifelong struggle for Ireland, it must seem that little else mattered. And of the child she spoke with complete unconcern. Jerott wondered if she were a woman indifferent to children. Or one who, weighing Lymond’s life and the child’s, had made a hard choice.
Then Lymond, looking up, said, ‘Where is she?’ and the messenger, smiling and bowing, said, ‘Dragut’s house. Dragut Rais is with the fleet; he is away. The woman waits for the Hâkim there.’ He paused. ‘The Hâkim will not wish an escort. If he will follow, there is a side door which will take us out of the palace.’
‘Wait a bit.’ Jerott, catching a handful of white tissue and emeralds, held Lymond back. ‘Didn’t the note say something about poor people? It doesn’t sound right. And in any case you can’t walk about the back streets like that.’
‘It had occurred to me,’ Lymond said, and Jerott let his hand fall. It crossed his mind to wonder why he had not been dispatched back to the harbour, and then he realized that his appearance in the courtyard, alone, would only set inquiries afoot. Also, Lymond would need his help with the woman. It further crossed his mind to wonder why he had thought it important to come in the first place.
He kept his mouth shut while, sent off with silver, the felt-capped man returned promptly with two white, hooded burnouses, smelling strongly of goat, which he and Lymond put on. Then, stepping into the dark, noisome air, Lymond said softly, ‘She is in Dragut’s house? I know the place very well. Suppose you and Mr Blyth follow, and I choose the way.… Mr Blyth, I should warn you, has a nervous disposition and a very sharp dagger.’ And as they set off, twisting and turning through the dark, precipitous streets, Jerott