Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [296]
‘More than a month ago,’ Zacco said. ‘Tzani-bey has been planning this for six weeks. Through the festival.’ He stopped, and then gave a laugh. ‘At least he was sure that Famagusta would fall. Of course. He tried to poison their food.’
‘He knew they were starving,’ Nicholas said. ‘You saved them. You and the Church.’
Zacco turned from the door. ‘Rizzo is coming,’ he said. ‘You will tell this to him. Nicosia should be warned.’
‘And you will leave the city?’ said Nicholas.
The King turned his head, his eyes alight once more, the colour returned to his skin: rescued from the oppressions of the day by the promise of action and danger. ‘What! And remove the bait from the trap? I shall stay here,’ he said.
‘An open invitation to four hundred Mamelukes?’ Nicholas said. ‘A trap means a battle. I suggest we try to scotch this before it erupts into Famagusta itself. Meanwhile, it might be best if you spent your nights at the Palace, but put it about that you stay in the Citadel. If there is an attack, or an attempt at one, then Conella Morabit will deal with it.’
‘We shall see,’ said the King. ‘Here is Rizzo. We should send for Pesaro and Conella. You will repeat your message, and we shall debate. My Nicholas, what am I to do with you? I wrest your dyeworks away, and you present me with my life. Rizzo … this is Conella’s new deputy. A king among men.’
He had not agreed. It didn’t matter, not at the moment. He waited until they were all gathered, and explained it all over again.
They let him go to the villa several hours after that, with orders to return to the castle by dusk. By then he had had wine, and not very much food, and the headache had started again that Abul Ismail had explained very simply, and which meant merely that he should rest, and eat lightly, and sleep. Diniz suffered in the same way. He wondered how in God’s name he was going to manage without Abul Ismail, and then remembered that he had nothing to manage: the city was full of monks and Hospitallers and there was no one sick any more in his villa. He actually sat down for a moment in the broken loggia, thinking of that, and collecting energy to get up and go in. Loppe found him there.
Being Loppe, he simply sat down beside him, and waited. After a while, Nicholas said, ‘Look. Grass growing there, by my foot. I saw a mouse, yesterday.’
‘The flamingoes are back at Salines,’ Loppe said. ‘And Akrotiri. We are getting ready for all the new cuttings. It’s pleasant, down there.’
Presently he said, ‘Astorre was called away to the Citadel. Master Tobias and Master John are still here. The young man Diniz left, but is coming back. They will let you stay here?’
He was right; it was getting cold, and waiting didn’t make it any better. ‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s go in. I have something to tell you.’
The third time of telling, the story seemed to lose credibility. Not to his hearers, who received it with fury, but to himself. They looked odd, John and Tobie and Loppe in the stuffy parlour with its assortment of stolen furnishings where for six weeks he had been accustomed to seeing other faces. He said, finally, ‘Of course, Tzani-bey may have changed his mind. We need more than this before the army could act. In any case, Abul Ismail’s life depends on secrecy. I think therefore that it’s better Diniz shouldn’t have to know.’
The voice of Diniz, behind him, said, ‘We don’t trust one another?’
Nicholas stood. He wondered if his face looked like the boy’s, and supposed that it did. He said, ‘We do. I thought you might find ignorance easier. Abul Ismail tells us that the Mamelukes plan to kill the King in Famagusta and take the island.’
The boy said, ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone back to the Mameluke camp,’ Nicholas said. ‘Otherwise they would suspect him. I have to get back to the Citadel now. Have they told you you’re free?’
‘Yes,’ said Diniz.
‘You could sail from Salines,’ said Nicholas. ‘Or Episkopi. No, not Episkopi. They might think you were smuggling cuttings.’
The boy didn’t smile. No one smiled. He felt stupid and alien, like