Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [151]
Then the skiff jounced at the jetty, and Nicholas met the different stare, equally appraising, of the emir. The Mameluke’s cloak boomed, and his helmet-brush panted like bellows. The emir said, ‘Did you think to meet death here? I am not greedy. One should savour a banquet. You ride with me to Kiti.’
‘And the men?’ Nicholas said. The jetty, when he gained it, seemed to sway like the sea.
‘They will march there,’ said the emir. ‘There is no haste for them. They will be taken care of quite simply.’ Below his cloak, he wore an Islamic coat over his brigandine. Beneath the playful threat of his manner there lay something both foreign and chilling.
Nicholas said, ‘I prefer to stay with my soldiers.’
The emir surveyed him. ‘We are stating preferences? It is a march of four miles to the castle. Your captain will make it on foot, with your one hundred men. We have mounts for you and your comrades. Your doctor. Your engineer. Your charming mistress. Your delectable catamite.’ Between the tongues of his helm, he was sneering.
Nicholas said, ‘Have I mistaken you? The merchants and ladies were to go free?’
‘Oh, they will,’ said Tzani-bey. ‘The merchants and their cattle will stay on board and disembark later. Only the chosen are invited to Kiti. You and your company, for reasons you know. And the rest as spectators. Every execution requires witnesses, does it not?’
‘To be carried out by you, my lord emir?’ said Nicholas. At his back, another skiff was arriving.
‘By me?’ said the Mameluke. ‘Of course, I should have no objection, but it is usual, when injury has been done, for the injured party to take his own satisfaction. No, I am not your executioner. I have been ordered to take you to Kiti. King James waits for you there. For you, and your men, and your fellow-travellers.’
His eyes, full of malice, held those of Nicholas and then moved behind, to the boat just arrived at the jetty. Nicholas turned. In it, stiff-backed and stern, was the Grand Commander of Cyprus with Napoleone Lomellini seated beside him. In the forepart of the skiff lay Katelina van Borselen, her eyes closed, her face drawn with exhaustion. Primaflora knelt at her side, half supporting her. Behind, their faces pallid and anxious, were her serving-woman and her young nephew Diniz.
Nicholas turned back to the emir. He said in Arabic, ‘You exceed your orders. The King your ustadh has no concern with these ladies. And one is ill.’
‘You can read my lord’s mind from Salines?’ said the emir. ‘He has heard of the painted lady Primaflora. Have I not heard you claim that the lady belongs to him? And the other, as you see, requires to be taken to shore. The journey below deck has discommoded her.’
‘But when she has recovered?’ Nicholas said. ‘Katelina van Borselen is a merchant, and related to princes. The King would be unwise to abuse her.’
‘As to that,’ the emir said, ‘no doubt the King will make up his own mind. If so valuable, she would seem a good hostage. Meanwhile the St Lazarus hospice may care for her. The boy and your other woman are summoned to Kiti. Do you presume, a dead man, to argue?’
Nicholas was silent. His bonds cut, he was pushed with Tobie and John to the horses, and saw Lomellini and de Magnac also mounted. While the cortège assembled, Katelina was lifted ashore. She was carried past Nicholas on a litter, her woman trotting beside. As the sick girl came abreast, her eyes opened. Nicholas said, ‘Get better quickly. We are not far away.’
Her lips were white. She said, hardly breathing. ‘You threaten me?’
Before he could reply, the litter had gone. Primaflora’s voice said, ‘Let her go. The nuns will care for her. Will you look at that fool of a boy?’ She stood, preparing to mount, and gazing behind at a tumult. At its core could be seen the hatless head and flailing arms of Diniz Vasquez, attempting to force his way after the litter. Before Nicholas could speak, a mailed fist was raised and the boy subsided, unconscious. ‘I have to say,’ said Primaflora, ‘that I have sometimes thought that force works better