Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [272]
Nicholas said, ‘It is a real truce. There is no army coming. Throw us ropes. You can hold us until you have proved it.’ Above, the battlements had become crowded with men, and with the mouths of many handguns, pointing downwards. The voice of authority, heard once before, became louder and recognisable, and ceased at the battlements. It said, ‘Bring these men up as far as the penthouse, no further. I will speak with them.’ The voice of Napoleone Lomellini, last seen in the Lusignan castle of Kiti where he had lied, without pleasure, to try and prevent Nicholas from joining Zacco. And from which Zacco had freed him, on ransom, to take this post once again as his enemy.
There was no reason for a beleaguered host to be gentle when hauling two spies into their precincts, and in their anger and disappointment and fear, the men who handled the drag-ropes would have made sure, but for Lomellini, that these climbers never climbed again. Rising to his feet on the floor of the penthouse Nicholas staggered for a moment, while his wrists were being wrenched back and lashed; and knew from the way John was standing that he had received the same treatment. Where there had been three men there were now a dozen, although he could not now see Diniz Vasquez. Instead, Napoleone Lomellini stood there, no longer furred and beringed, in a helm and cuirass dented and dull in the moonlight. There was no softening in his stare. He said, ‘Niccolò vander Poele. I am told there are bombards. Did you plant them?’
‘I am the engineer,’ John le Grant said. ‘They’re safe of themselves, I guarantee it; but of course, a chance shot could do for them. If you give me a torch I’ll show your pioneers where they are bedded.’
‘It seems fair,’ said the Genoese captain. ‘And if they blow up, you will know you have forgotten one. Take him away and get him to do as he says. Vander Poele will remain.’ His face, grotesque in the torchlight, was little but bone, dirt and gristle. He turned to Nicholas. ‘I am in no mood for anything but the truth. You will probably die, but certainly you will speak before you die. You, the head of a company, are here as Zacco’s sapper? Explain yourself.’
‘The King is in Nicosia,’ said Nicholas. ‘And all his officers. This attack was my own. He knows nothing of it.’
‘But the churchmen did,’ Lomellini said. ‘They came to keep us in parley, while you assault us.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘The church has come in good faith, and is innocent of any deception. I planned an attack, and have cancelled it. You will find we have lit and put out all our fuses. If you want better proof, ask the churchmen. You will learn Zacco has sent them. You will discover, I am sure, that he has forbidden me or anyone else to attack you. If you doubt me, ask yourself where is my army? If it were a ruse, they should be here to exploit it.’
‘Except,’ said the captain, ‘that the wall has not fallen. You show us some mines: perhaps there are others still due to explode. Perhaps you have spoken the truth, but, waiting in vain, your friends may well think you dead, and carry out an attack to avenge you. What truce can we accept on this basis?’ The skin of his face hung on its framework like the hides of the penthouse, and weariness and anger and pain scored his brow as if done by a hatchet.
Nicholas said, ‘You have myself as hostage. Let my engineer go back and tell them so.’
The man called Vito said, ‘My lord Napoleone. Let me have them both. They will tell me the truth.’
Through the hubbub of agreement that followed, the captain was gazing at Nicholas. He said, ‘You would deserve it. You have given me no reason to trust you.’
‘We are your prisoners,’ Nicholas said. ‘Since our story is true,