Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [235]
He spent a day establishing her in the villa at Nicosia, and introduced her to Galiot his steward, and to Bartolomeo Zorzi, the superintendent of his dyeworks. Galiot’s thoughts he could not quite decipher. Zorzi was insultingly impressed as by nothing else in their acquaintance: his bows had been espalier-supple. ‘My lady! Ah, Ser Niccolò: if you could win me such a bride from Rhodes!’
‘She has sisters,’ said Nicholas. ‘I have your report: fulfil the Karamanian order. You have replaced the boy Diniz?’
‘There is another already in training,’ said the dyemaster. ‘But what of the young man’s aunt? My brother Jacopo was enquiring. The charming Flemish lady?’
‘She is well, and returning to Portugal,’ Nicholas said. ‘Sadly, her vine and sugar cuttings did not survive. If you see Messer Erizzo, you might tell him.’
‘He will sympathise,’ said Bartolomeo Zorzi. ‘But in war, what can one expect? I only trust the lady will reach home and her dear husband safely.’
‘I hope she will,’ Nicholas said. ‘It is a matter of deep concern to my lady wife and myself. I would go so far as to say we both depend on it.’
Then he was on his own, and riding Chennaa at dawn in company with a short supply-train of camels to join the army and Zacco who, he knew very well, would have the news of his arrival, and the manner of it. In proof, he was welcomed by outposts and guards as soon as he entered the encampment and by Astorre’s distant shout, heard at the moment that he saw his own pavilion had been re-erected with his personal staff waiting outside.
Inside, it was full of flowers and the person of Tzani-bey al-Ablak, directing the placing of more. The emir turned, his eyes hazy with drugs above the hooked nose and arrogant black moustache. Outside the battlefield he wore a white turban, pinned with a wisp of jewel-set osprey, and his coat was of saffron damask. He said, ‘Why, Pasha, your amiable presence delights us too soon. We prepare a welcome for you and the divine lady, your wife. The beloved comes in her litter?’
Behind him, Astorre had arrived at the tent. ‘You’re back! You’ve married the woman!’ he said. He looked round. ‘Someone’s dead?’
‘I think,’ Nicholas said, ‘that Allah’s sage disciple the emir is offering congratulations on my nuptials, blessed by God and by Allah, the Best Knower, the Satisfier of All Needs. My lord Tzani-bey, it is appreciated. Alas, the lady presently remains in Nicosia but later, I hope, you will knock at our door there. May I offer you a refreshment?’
‘There’s wine in my tent,’ Astorre said. ‘So what’s all this about?’
‘I think perhaps,’ Nicholas said, ‘the lord emir would prefer something different. What may I send for?’
The Mameluke smiled. ‘You are kind. But look, your officers bid you welcome; you are weary no doubt, and would prefer to drink wine in their company. In any case, I bear a message. Monseigneur the King bids you attend him.’
‘Where is he?’ Nicholas said.
‘In his tent. He is impatient. Perhaps your men will forgive you,’ said Tzani-bey, ‘if you present yourself first to your lord. He has not been pleased, I fear, with your absence. Such is the tyranny of generous friendship. Yet which of us would be without it? Friendship or womanly love?’
‘It depends on the friends,’ Nicholas said. ‘And the love. For these your good works, may Allah the Beneficent, the Merciful give you reward.’
He watched him leave and then spoke to Astorre, who was smirking. ‘I’d better go. Can you get everyone together? Perhaps your tent, not mine. Is there anything I should know?