Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [263]
Meanwhile, there was a need for discretion. Their departure from the royal precincts had not, Nicholas believed, drawn attention. After that display of high temper, Zacco wouldn’t send for him, even if sober. And tomorrow, one hoped, he would merely assume that Nicholas had made a pettish departure and was sulking somewhere, awaiting apology or forgiveness. Markios, for one, would not disillusion him.
Primaflora was not at the villa. But now, attending on the King’s mother, she might be expected to stay tonight at the Palace. He could imagine the two clever women, and the delicate fencing. He left her a note and, after hesitation, a small parcel which contained the most personal, the most valuable object he possessed. He would have liked to have said goodbye in another way, but this was probably best. There was no doubt at all, if he led this assault, that he would not return. For as long as she lived, she had been provided for. He wondered, once, if she would weep for him as she had done for Ansaldo.
The other note he left with Loppe who had received him, and listened, and then deftly completed his packing. To Loppe himself he had nothing to give save the task in Cyprus which had seemed most worth doing. Nicholas said, ‘The company will have the Kouklia franchise so long as the King has a conscience. Run it well, so long as it pleases you. The dyeworks are different. They are lost, I think to the Venetians, whatever happens.’
After some moments of silence, Loppe spoke without apparent emotion. ‘You forbid me to come?’
‘You know why,’ said Nicholas. ‘Or does even a temporary steward open no chests; fold no linen away?’ And then, answering the look on Loppe’s face, he said, ‘Don’t be sorry. For what I do, I need larger reasons than that.’
To Sigouri was perhaps thirty miles and, although the rain kept away, it was dark and treacherous underfoot and they hardly spoke, men-at-arms or servants or principals, as they guided fresh horses across the grey soil of the Messaoria, splashing over burgeoning rivers; imperceptible to silent villages, churches and monasteries except by a thud of hooves and the swimming spawn of their brands. It was grey daylight when they crossed the moat of the Château Franc and besides himself only Astorre, Nicholas saw, had tried to keep the iron back and square shoulders of duty. Astorre, because he was content under orders. Himself, because alone of them all, he knew what he was committed to. What he had brought them to. What, without him, they would never have had to face. But that was the risk they had taken in joining him.
Their approach had been seen. With Pesaro, striding to meet them, was Thomas. Thomas said, ‘The heathen bastards!’
‘Wait,’ said Nicholas. In the captain’s room, hardly cold from the last time, he said, ‘Now. Tzani-bey?’
Philip Pesaro looked gaunt. He said, ‘We carried out all your orders. We restored the water. We sent loaves over the wall, with a message. The Genoese sent them back. They thought they were poisoned.’
‘They’ve had no food then?’ said Nicholas abruptly. ‘They are starving still? But you went on trying?’
‘Over and over. Until we collected the bread they kept returning and started to use it. Four men have died.’
‘It was poisoned,’ said Nicholas. ‘I asked you-’ He heard his voice hardening and stopped. The others, who knew nothing of this, were turning their heads like three blackbirds.
John le Grant said, ‘You stopped the pumps? Put water and food into Famagusta without Zacco knowing?’
‘No. He didn’t know,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or he wouldn’t have agreed to a truce over Christmas.’
Tobie said, ‘He didn’t agree.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘And as it turns out, it doesn’t