Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [76]
Tying Jerott’s horse and his own, the farmer crossed the yard and tapped on a double-leafed door, smiling at Blyth as he followed. A dog barked. The spinning-wheel faltered, and then went rhythmically on, nor did the flute-player hesitate. In the darkness, Jerott thought he heard the gates into the street quietly close. A child squeaked, and up in the gallery a man laughed, and then a door shut, muffling the sound. Behind the farmer, the house doors suddenly opened, and sound and light tumbled into the courtyard, surrounding the stocky form of a woman. When she saw the Syrian, she smiled, with blackened teeth, and welcomed him in.
The silk-farmer’s sister was not young, and because of that perhaps was unveiled, her eyes circled with kohl and her dark hair reddened with hènnah. She listened to her brother’s brief tale as they sat, on unexpectedly fine brocade cushions, in a small room thick with dusty hangings and rugs, to which clung the stale smell of storax and spikenard and the pungent benzoin often favoured by Africans. There might have been kif, but if so, the stronger smells smothered it.
Jerott watched, as she talked, the bracelets jangle and clash on the woman’s thick arms. They were of gold, and heavy. Silk-farming, obviously, was a lucrative trade. They clattered again as she clapped her hands and a slave, barefooted, slid in to lay fuel on the brazier which smoked dully, half-extinguished, in a corner. It reminded Jerott of the sweet sound of swordplay, in the days when his life had been a fighting man’s, not a nomad’s. He wondered how long it took a human being to kipper in scent. Then he realized that the Syrian had risen, and taking his arm, was saying, ‘Here is Kedi. My sister says you may gladly remove her. She is finding the boy.’ Jerott stood up, and a negress came in.
Once, she had been a free citizen of a proud Ethiopian court. Once, too, prized for her milk, she had been fed and cared for and although a slave, had lived in vague happiness, Jerott supposed, wet-nursing the white, the brown, the olive-skinned children of corsairs.
Now, the padded muscle and the soft, meat-fed flesh had melted from under the supple black skin, and the wide-eyed woman who now stood upright before him in her stained robe and headcloth had big-knuckled hands twisted with hardship. Her collar and cheekbones rested in hollows, and where the swollen milch-breasts once pressed against the soaked cotton, the stuff now lay folded and flat. Jerott said, ‘Dost thou speak English?’ and the woman, no surprise in her eyes, said, ‘I learn in Dragut’s household, Efendi.’
‘And did you learn Irish?’ Jerott said.
This time, there was a little life in the stare. This time she hesitated, and Jerott said gently, ‘It is all right. The child’s father has come. We are going to take you both where you will be happy and safe.’
‘The child’s father?’ Again uncertain, she paused. ‘Who is he?’
‘His name does not matter. He is a Christian, and Khaireddin must be brought up a Christian as well. He is rich. You will be happy.’
‘He would take me with Khaireddin?’ The slow brain thought. ‘But then, what of my mistress?’
Jerott hesitated. ‘How was she when you left her?’
‘She was sick, Efendi. In that terrible house with the goats on the floor. She could not carry water: she said, “Fawg may le Dia”,’ Leave me to God. The attempt at Gaelic was quite recognizable. She went on, ‘Then Shakib came to buy us, the child and myself, for Ali-Rashid. But the lady he left.’
There was a silence. Only when he saw the fright return to her eyes did Jerott