Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [47]
And now Gabriel had had his revenge. Gabriel, not Fate, had seen to their safety as far as that wintry garden of Dragut Rais’s and Gabriel had made sure that Lymond would reach the shack they had just left. From the fastnesses of Malta, through heaven knew what agent, Gabriel had planned for his enemy this gross humiliation: this ultimate hurt. In the darkness beside him, Lymond suddenly spoke, so à propos that it startled him.
‘If you are interested, I think we shall be allowed to reach the ship safely, normal hazards apart.’
For a moment Jerott rode in silence, the rain running in beads round his hood. Then he said bluntly, ‘I only hope that you’re wrong.’
‘How perspicacious of you, Jerott.’ Lymond, following his own thoughts, reacted merely from habit. ‘No. We are on the hook; and now we are going to be played. This is only the beginning.’
For a long time Jerott tried to say nothing. But in the end, as without event they again approached the postern and Lymond poured the coins ready from his pouch, Jerott said, ‘But try and remember … it is Gabriel’s doing. All these men are only tools.’
The money chinked. They were through, and into the dark, unlit souks. As they began to pick their way down to the harbour: ‘But without such tools, none of this would have happened,’ Lymond remarked.
And still the years with the Order would not be denied. ‘But, Francis … you take these killings on your soul.’
His answer was sharp and immediate. ‘I shall act as I please,’ said Lymond, ‘until I am … satisfied. Meanwhile … I wonder if you were right——Look out!’
It was the sound of the rain, Jerott discovered afterwards, which had warned him: the infinitesimal changes in impact as it hit upon wool and felt and leather and steel somewhere close: somewhere round the next dark bend of the souk, where the overhanging wooden storeys raised crooked arms. Even so, it was too late. Reining hard, Jerott looked over his shoulder: the footsteps behind them were now plain to hear, advancing the way they had come; cutting off their retreat. Nor were there cross-lanes up which they might escape. Glancing at either wall, Jerott realized the ambushers had picked their site well. Solid wall, broken only by barred grilles or impassable doors, ran on either side of the souk. He looked at Lymond, and Lymond, insanely, had lashed his mule to a trot and, robe thrown off, was standing on its rump like an acrobat, arms steady; head tilted back. Then, as it passed under the overhanging buildings, he jumped.
As far as Jerott could see, he jumped blind. But among the crossbeams and ledges of the wooden arch he must somewhere have found a finger-hold, for Jerott saw him swing free for only an instant, and then he had pulled himself up, flattened against the timber, and had turned, hand outstretched.
By then Jerott was already on his way. Broader than Lymond and strongly made, he too had developed a physical sixth sense in tackling the unknown. He balanced perfectly on his mule’s back because he had to; and jumped; and, with Lymond’s hand to help him, scrambled upwards and then across the arch of the bridge where they flung themselves flat on the skyline, the rain beating down on their bare heads and unprotected shoulders, as the streets below filled with the steel maces, the lances, the axes and crossbows of a detachment of Janissaries. In a gesture of stupefaction, Lymond dropped his face on the wet plaster and then raised it wryly to Jerott.
From this, Gabriel could be absolved. It was the Agha of the Janissaries, tardily returned and mad as a scolding piper on the subject of muskets, who was responsible for this sortie.
Lying on the flat-roofed building, whatever it was, beyond the bridge, Jerott surveyed the adjoining roof levels, and conjectured on their chances of escape. No body of Janissaries, however provoked, would publicly injure an emissary of France and a guest of the Viceroy’s. They could, however, with