Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [328]
Poised, absorbed at a lectern, the King’s new acquaintance called David was not immediately roused by the King’s step but rested in thought, the soft beard of a quill at his lips. He dropped his hand to make a small note and lifted his eyes as the King brought Nicholas to him. He laid down the quill quickly and bowed. His eyes, shining on Nicholas, were as dark as the ink he was using, and his head reached no higher than the King’s shoulder. The King said, ‘Here is Niccolò. You have heard all about him. Niccolò vander Poele. I should have introduced you before. Nikko: M. David de Salmeton.’
A French name. The man’s inflection, when he murmured his greeting, was also as French as his own. That was, French mixed with something else – but in his case, not Flemish. The King said, ‘And what have you marked? The Grand Bailie will not agree, but I shall insist. Marble. I shall have nothing but marble.’
The chart for the new Palace of Famagusta lay on the lectern. Beside it, neatly listed, was a first assessment of costs. Nicholas said, ‘I think perhaps you should get the Grand Bailie very drunk.’ He could feel the court watching; the relief, the amusement seeping through the room. The King had prevailed. The Fleming had surrendered his wife without so much as a struggle. There remained, of course, to be seen what they would all have to pay, in slow advancement, in grovelling, to the deprived husband loaded with honours. He turned aside abruptly. The King stopped him, a hand on his good shoulder. ‘A realist, this man of numbers. I know, Nikko. The Grand Bailie has told me. Our coffers will not pay for this. I shall not squeeze it out of the peasantry. I shall not even exact more from your sugar. It will be paid for by M. David.’
No one but himself seemed surprised. How long had this man been at court? A few days? Even weeks, before the King came to Famagusta? It was a long time since Nicholas had been in the capital. Nicholas said, ‘By M. David? In what way?’
‘In the usual way,’ said the dark young man, his lips softening. He didn’t smile.
The King did. He said, ‘You have been locked up, a hostage. You have missed all the news. M. de Salmeton is a broker, Niccolò, like yourself. Like yourself, his firm’s business takes many forms. They deal in pawns, dyes, insurance. They have ships. They raise loans, like the one that will rebuild Famagusta. They build sugar refineries.’
‘I see,’ Nicholas said. ‘The name of your firm is Vatachino?’
‘That is correct,’ said David de Salmeton. ‘Of course, you have heard of us. We were happy to take your surplus sugar. M. de Corner and M. de Loredano the same. I hope we have completed our task to your satisfaction.’
‘I am glad to meet you,’ said Nicholas.
Again, the fine lips softened but didn’t part. The broker said, ‘Oh, I am not the head of Vatachino. Only an agent.’
‘And who is the head, monseigneur?’ Nicholas said.
The King laughed again. ‘Try to get him to answer that! He says that it is of no importance, or no interest, or even that he doesn’t know. He has full powers to deal and to sign, so we cannot torture it out of him. But you are curious, too. How shall we discover?’
Nicholas said, still speaking into the dark, tranquil face, ‘But you must have an office?’
‘Many,’ said the calm, amused voice. ‘One in Venice, for example. I have had dealings with your Messer Gregorio. Perhaps he has not wished to worry you with them. And we are about to set up in Bruges. I am interested in dyeworks.’
‘You have operated one?’ Nicholas said.
The young man lifted and wiped his pen, closed his inkwell and left the lectern, standing with his hands clasped loosely together before him. He looked like a patient, harp-playing angel stopped on his way to a choir. He said, ‘We own a dyeworks, monseigneur. Here in Nicosia.’
‘Not unless there