Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [213]
His vessel now was a fishing-boat; and he made no attempt to leave when it tied up among the screeching gulls and screeching Rhodians in the fish-harbour. He worked with the rest, barefoot among the bream and mullet and octopus, his cotton drawers dripping with scales, his woollen hat pushed from his brow. Even when the baskets were full and the others had gone off to the tavern he was kept behind, swearing, to put the owner’s soup on the stove and light the lamp in the rigging.
It was the arrangement, when he bought the boat from its owner. The owner told no one, and the owner treated him as one of his crew. Nicholas whistled as he worked, and the sky and sea turned madder red, and he thought up new ways of answering the quips and invitations that fell his way now and then from the other boats or the jetty, using all the languages he knew and a lot of words he had lately learned. His skin was an even mid-brown from his face to his toes, and he felt as uncomfortable in his breeches as he supposed all the others were feeling. But he didn’t envy the others. He had food and freedom: he felt drunk with good cheer and well-being and, as soon as the skipper came back, he had food and a jar of tarry red wine in a basket to indulge in as well.
And news. As they sat back getting peacefully fuddled in the fish-stinking poop of the boat, and the moon came out of the sea, and far-off voices and laughter tickled the quiet between wave-falls, the skipper said, ‘And I asked after the woman. She’s on the island.’
Nicholas grunted. His lack of enthusiasm was not only prudent; it was genuine. It had, of course, been essential to pay this little visit to Rhodes, and not too difficult, with the game three-quarters finished behind him. Perhaps he had enjoyed the respite too much. Liberation without responsibility: he had had it before, for ten months. Had had it, in a way, all his childhood. Eventually clearing his mouth, he said, ‘The Flemish woman from St Pol & Vasquez? Where is she staying?’
The fisherman, who came from Apolakia, didn’t know him by sight and – in the absence of other advice – seemed to think he was being paid to play Cupid to some decadent Knight of the Order. Until set discreetly to rights on the voyage, he had seized with gusto the role of taskmaster. He still enjoyed giving orders, which Nicholas did not mind within limits; and used towards him the name of Nikko, which Nicholas had suggested himself and which, in the past, others had called him by, too. Now the man said, ‘A Flemish woman called Borselen? She’s not in the City. Was. They had her up to Carlotta. The word goes that she’s waiting to sail but her firm doesn’t have credit; so she was told to take the charity of the Order so long as it was outside the City. Not much of a catch there, eh Nikko? Is that why she’s leaving her husband? Thinks you’ll get a good job in the fish-market and keep her?’
‘Where d’you think she’s gone?’ Nicholas asked, when he could speak without laughing.
‘They said the Genoese Langue took her over. They’ve got a castle at Salakhos, but I doubt if it’s in a state for a lady. The Knights at Monolithos could take her, or the fortress at Pharaclos. Each of them has a commander from Genoa. If you want to know any more, you’ll have to ask in the City,’ said the man. ‘Or down the coast. They know all the gossip down the coast. Depends how much of a hurry you’re in.’
‘Not all that much,’ said Nicholas. ‘Who would know down the coast?’
‘My mother,’ said the fisherman, whose name was Boulaki. ‘She does the laundry for Monolithos. My aunt Persefoni. She has the best roasting-ovens in Pharaclos. I was thinking of going to see both of them. But it’s your boat.’
The wine-vat was empty. Nicholas shook out the last drop over the side and thumped it down. ‘I’d like,’ he said, ‘to meet your lady mother. But what do we do for a crew?’
A smile appeared, dispensing a mist of dental decay and pure alcohol.