Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [264]
That was addressed to Philip Pesaro. The captain said, ‘What do you think I feel about it? I did all you asked. I had the emir watched. I had the bread guarded. Still he managed.’
‘And you spoke to Tzani-bey?’ Nicholas said.
‘Oh, I spoke to him,’ said the captain. ‘He was extremely polite. He said my words were of pellucid clarity and great wisdom, but he knew nothing of poison, and if I wished to complain, he would be glad to take sherbet with you, or with Zacco. But the King hasn’t agreed to the truce?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘There is only the alternative that we spoke of.’
Pesaro’s face altered briefly. Then he said, ‘I remember. They starve. Or we save the honour of Genoa the Superb by attacking them.’
‘Nicholas,’ said John le Grant, making three words of it.
He had forgotten the others. He said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you, because it was all planned to – to have its effect. There is no food in Famagusta. They are dying.’
‘And you put food in, against the King’s orders, before ever you came to Nicosia? And gave the King a false story? And now Tzani-bey has seized the chance to defy you and poison it? Nicholas, you fool, why don’t you tell us?’ said le Grant.
What would a truthful man say? You are too honest to be trusted with some secrets. One slip of the tongue would have betrayed all I was working for. There are more threads in this web than you even know yet; more than you could understand; more than you would ever forgive. Nicholas said, ‘I thought he might agree to the truce. But now, you see, the only way to save them is to fight.’
‘Then we fight,’ said Astorre. ‘I thought we’d agreed on it. And if they’re starving, it’ll be all the shorter.’
‘They can still fire cannon,’ said Nicholas. ‘No. Let’s sleep, and then get to the siege camp. I want to plan. I want to do this thing as well as it can be done, and with as few deaths as we can manage. And before anything else, I want to have a word with Tzani-bey al-Ablak.’
Chapter 38
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, Nicholas presented himself with Astorre at the gate of the Mameluke camp, with its well-defended ring of wagons and store-houses. He had chosen an hour at which the emir would certainly have retired, and might not have heard of his arrival. There was a chance, of course, that he would be refused entry, but he didn’t think so. He, like the emir, was a commander answering straight to the King. While Famagusta stood out, the emir should want no altercations with Zacco. And the bey’s communication with Zacco had been cut. Philip Pesaro had seen to that. For four days, whatever courier came to Sigouri, he would never get further. After that, it would be different.
And, of course, if he was shrewd enough, the emir Tzani-bey would want to bargain with him.
He received Nicholas and Astorre in his pavilion, and within a reasonable time, although the quilted cover had barely been flung over the mattress, and the pile of carpets was ruffled. To one side, dropped unnoticed, lay a silver cup which had not contained sherbet. Among the many odours was the one that, until this moment, Nicholas had thrust forgotten deep in his memory. He bowed correctly, and sat crosslegged on the cushions as offered, while Astorre, smart as scissors, did likewise. The emir took his place thoughtfully opposite.
Seen in undress, in the vivid fabrics of winter, he was a smaller man than he seemed in the field, despite the broad shoulders and sinewy limbs. The sooty eyes, the olive skin, the coarse black mop of the moustache gave little clue as to his origins. He spoke Arabic, and fluent Greek, and had acquired reasonable French; he was well trained in arms, and perhaps in other skills too: an education in philosophy, divinity, science was open to Mamelukes, and not always incompatible with brutish behaviour. But if he had a Christian past, it was not apparent in his dress: the crimson hat with the kerchief wound lightly