Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [153]
‘Why?’ said Nicholas. ‘Because he has eyes, like the Mameluke.’
No one spoke. The boy, flinching, lowered his eyes. Astorre coughed. You bastard, thought Tobie. How do you know? How do you know how to get your own way? In the corner, Thomas scowled, as he usually did when matters went beyond his understanding. Only John le Grant remained looking at Nicholas and Nicholas, feeling his gaze, lifted his head and returned it. The engineer said, in his ordinary voice. ‘Someone is coming to fetch us.’
The professionals jumped to their feet: Astorre with his puckered scars and teak belly and muscular calves; Thomas with his carpet of hair, throat to belly-button. Pink as marzipan, Tobie was slower, his fuzz of hair dispensing slow teardrops. Le Grant waited until Nicholas stirred, and then rose at the same time. With them both rose Diniz, perforce, with the grasp of Nicholas under his elbow.
The door opened on a glitter of arms, but all that entered were clothes. Conveyed on a succession of legs there arrived shirts and pourpoints and doublets, hose and slippers, hats and robes. Last to promenade was a man in the robes of a chamberlain. He said, ‘The High Court requires that all who attend be fittingly dressed. Prepare yourselves for the summons.’
A suitable remark rose in Tobie’s throat and evaporated at a look from Nicholas. No. If the King wanted puppets, he should have them. But at least, he would get puppets with voices.
They dressed, with dry jokes, prosaically exchanging what fitted less well for better. Nicholas, the largest of all, was best suited with a mantle that might have been made for him. But then, the King had met Nicholas. That was why they were here. Tobie said, ‘I need –’
‘You haven’t time,’ Astorre said. ‘They’re coming for us.’
On this occasion, the doors opened only on soldiers: a double file lining a passage, and established on the stairs beyond that, where sconces flickered on feathers and steel. At their head was the Mameluke emir. He smiled. He said, ‘Now is the appointed time. The King waits. You will follow.’
They had not far to go. The castle had once been more extensive, and the repairs had been inexpensive and hasty. They passed blackened walls, where the wind moaned and wailed through distant fissures, and the torch-flames caught their breath and burned yellow, rippling. Once a breach opened black at their feet, the broken flags marked by a guard rail. But the hall doors, when they reached them, were intact, although the timbers were cracked, and the coat of arms bruised, as by a mallet. Tzani-bey struck the doors and they opened. Blinding light fell upon Nicholas and, dazzled, he paused.
‘You falter?’ said the emir. ‘You hear the sound of the saw, of the pincers heating? Take your courage. Think of your men. Step to meet your fate bravely.’ He had spoken in Arabic. Smiling still, he pushed past Nicholas over the threshold and, advancing, took his stance upon a square of Turkey carpet. He bowed. ‘My lord King. Niccolò vander Poele, Knight of the Sword of Carlotta, and his mercenaries.’
It was too late to be affected by malice. It was too late for anything he could count on, and certainly too late to remember the moment when he had promised himself that he was no longer a member of a community. When he had told himself he had taken charge of an arsenal in – what was it? – the opening moves of a perfect war game.
He walked into a small hall which had lost its timbers, but whose brilliant lights fell on costly wall-hangings, and on the deep-dyed velvets and silks of the courtiers who stood on either side. He knew some of their names. There was Rizzo di Marino, ridden ahead as his harbinger, still carrying the cloak he had worn at Salines. Beside him stood a man in Archbishop’s robes: William Goneme, the King’s wily Cypriot counsellor. Here surely was Conella Morabit, the other Sicilian knight. And men the Venetians had told him of: Zaplana and Galimberto; Salviati and Costanzo. And even, at the foot of the throne, the page Jorgin, who