Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [279]
‘You know what would happen if you did,’ the doctor said equably. ‘Here is soup. Sit. How are the pains?’
‘Worse,’ said Diniz. He looked at Nicholas. He said, ‘It is a crude business, starving. Did you not know we were here?’
Nicholas said, ‘No. I was told you had escaped. Your note said you had gone home to Portugal. I thought you were at home, and the demoiselle also.’
‘Your manager helped me,’ said Diniz. ‘The Venetian, Zorzi.’
The food he had eaten burned in his throat. ‘Not by my orders,’ said Nicholas.
‘No,’ said Diniz. ‘She said that would be so. You saved her in Rhodes.’
Diniz Vasquez was like a drawing of himself, done by Colard in black ink and white powder. There were sores of malnourishment at the edge of his mouth, and his skin was crossed with premature folds and lines, like a map of the face of his father. Upon it were visible the prints of many different thoughts, and some conflict. Nicholas said, ‘Whatever she has told you, it is true. What you would do for her, so would I.’
‘But,’ said the boy, ‘you married Primaflora?’
‘Do you want her?’ said Nicholas.
The silence stretched. The boy said, ‘Who would want her now? She is alive?’
Nicholas said, ‘But for Primaflora, the food would not have come today.’ It was the truth, in its own macabre way. Stiff with disbelief, the boy’s dark eyes stood in their hollows. Nicholas went on talking persuasively. ‘So the apportioning of blame, as you see, is not simple. If you wish to go to Nicosia, I could arrange it. I will stay with her.’
A smell of hot soup filled the room. Like the mark of a slap, an arc of pink sprang across each of the boy’s whitened cheeks. He watched the bowl, and seized it, and then, meeting the physician’s eyes, took the spoon and fed himself, slowly. After a very short time, he stopped, and laid the bowl down. He bent his head, his arms hugging his body. The Arab shook his head, and then rising, touched his shoulder. ‘Have patience. Let it cool. Eat as if it were poison.’
‘Is it?’ said the boy.
‘No,’ said Abul Ismail. ‘I have tasted it. Since I came, I have tasted all I have been asked to. Messer Niccolò has offered, I’m sure, to do the same. Your body will grow whole again. Why not do as he says, and let him send you to Nicosia as an envoy?’
Diniz Vasquez looked up. ‘To spend Christmas with Zacco?’ he said. His eyes went to the door and returned. He said, ‘I would stay where she is. You will be under guard, for your own safety.’
‘Ser Niccolò will be kept, as I am, in the Citadel,’ said Abul Ismail. ‘But I am allowed in the streets, with my escort. Once I am known, and my work, they are unlikely to harm me.’
‘I can pull weights,’ said Nicholas. ‘And carry loads that men here are too weak to manage. I can be your assistant, unless my presence would harm you. Food will strengthen their anger. They know I planned to attack them.’
‘They know that if they harm you, their food will stop,’ said the Arab in his precise, guttural voice. ‘Work, and they will not resent the food you eat. On the other hand, there will always be hotheads. There is one.’
A handgun had fired in the house. Diniz sprang up, but Nicholas reached the door before him, wrenching it open. Outside, smoke and stench met him together. The body of their steward lay on the floor in a pumping fountain of blood. Beyond it stood the young squire who brought him, the smoking tube in his hand, his face stamped with rage and with loathing. The reek of ordure voided from all his clothing. Then he saw Nicholas, and flung the hackbut away and drew his sword with a wet, shaking hand. ‘Poisoners!’ he said. He took a cumbered step forward, and Diniz Vasquez strode into his path and stood unarmed before him.
‘Well, you too!’ the boy said. ‘We’re the same, even the women. Thank God we have water. Come with me, and we’ll see to it. Fresh food on empty stomachs, I’m told. I’ve made them eat everything I do, so I can tell you the food isn’t tampered with. We have a doctor, though. Senhor Abul?’
‘An old story,’ said the Arab. ‘Sweat and