Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [40]
Tobie was there, with a different pattern of dirt on his face. He straightened, looking at Nicholas across the stained ground. Nicholas said, ‘Can I help?’
Tobie said, ‘No. Don’t drink all the wine.’
The wine was in Tobie’s tent. Nicholas put his pallet there and sat for a long time, drinking in moderation as the canvas above him dried and turned taut and pink and, finally, hot and white. Tobie stopped, came in, and sat, rather suddenly, on the ground. His reddish hair looked like a shawl of wet crochet-work, and he had a ditch dug from each bloodshot eye. He said, ‘If you’ve drunk it all, I’ll open you with my gutting knife.’
Nicholas handed over a bottle. ‘Many?’ he said.
‘For a non-battle? Nothing worth speaking of. So, you enjoyed it?’
‘At the time,’ Nicholas said. ‘Were you hurt?’
Tobie removed his clenched lips from the orifice. ‘Notches,’ he said. ‘The same as you, by the look of you. Did you clean them?’
‘That’s where the rest of the wine went,’ said Nicholas. ‘If you’re so damned puritanical, why do you stay in this business?’
Tobie carefully straightened out both short legs, and opened his shoulders against his big box. ‘So long as men like you fight, men like me have to pick up the pieces. The Count’s going back to Urbino, now he’s stopped Malatesta interfering. So there isn’t a job for you meantime. What are you going to do?’
‘Go south. That’s rubbish,’ said Nicholas. ‘God’s gift to the valiant wounded? You wanted field experience, and you’ve had it. The thickest student out of Pavia would have learned all he needs to by this time. You only stay on because your Skanderbeg is labelled Urbino. I don’t blame you, but don’t try to wave a halo at me.’
There was a silence, during which Tobie’s round eyes, placed on either side of his bottle, remained trained on Nicholas. The bottle withdrew. Tobie said, ‘You want me to tell you why you’ve resorted to fighting?’
A single dimple appeared and stayed: a sign to beware of. Nicholas said, ‘If you don’t dissect me, I shan’t dissect you. All right. I want to meet Skanderbeg. I want to build machines. I want to …’
‘What?’ said Tobie, when the pause became noticeable.
‘Make sure that Thomas got back to the Abruzzi. Why isn’t Urbino marching south to help Skanderbeg and Ferrante?’
‘Because the men are too tired, you fool. And also because he needs to keep some here to contain Malatesta.’
‘I have a ship,’ Nicholas said.
The sun burned through the cloth. The tent might have been standing alone, such was the silence now. Very far off, if one listened, a cock crew, and a horse snickered sleepily. The only voices were the muttering ones of the servants, passing quietly between canvas alleys. A man cried out somewhere. Tobie said, ‘It’s too late. Piccinino is marching north to confront them. The battle will be over before you can get there.’
‘You weren’t going to tell me. Damn you,’ Nicholas said.
‘You know now,’ Tobie said. ‘If you’re collecting battlefields, don’t fail to take note of this one. Astorre, seven thousand furious Albanians and darling Ferrante, claimant of Naples, against Count Jacopo Piccinino, the most successful son of the most successful condottiere in Italy. Plenty of work for the surgeons.’
‘The ship might get there in time,’ Nicholas said.
‘Might. Given the wind. Leave it,’ Tobie said. ‘They’ll be fighting a battle. You’re in the running for worse. Simon may have lost interest, but his wife hasn’t. She won’t have been in Anjou for nothing. Who wouldn’t John of Calabria kill to get provisions and money?’
‘Money from Katelina?’ said Nicholas.
‘From Simon’s father,’ said Tobie. ‘My God, has the hitch in your life knocked you silly? It was fat Jordan the