Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [61]
It was the costume of an emir, and an emir of forty or even a hundred. His use of Arabic, a language foreign to most, was quite deliberate. He said, ‘Whose is she?’ and Nicholas responded immediately, in the same tongue. ‘She belongs to King James. Who are you who comes, like the ass bearing books, and dare touch her?’
He thought then he had lost his arm. The other’s sword blurred in the air, and he felt the steel bite in his shoulder. Erizzo shouted. Primaflora lay thrust to one side. The emir spoke in a voice of calmest contempt. ‘Conduct yourself, log, or I shall bring you a brass bowl to look upon, that will shrivel your eyes and your arrogance. What renegade taught you the tongue of the Prophet?’
‘Sultan Mehmet, lord of the Ottomans,’ Nicholas said. The sword pressed and pressed, and he felt the blood begin to run, drenching.
‘Liar,’ said the emir, his lips stretching.
‘Whom your lord the King James hopes will help him,’ Nicholas said. ‘King James, who is expecting me.’
The blood ran, but the sword had ceased to cut. ‘You are the man Niccolò,’ said the emir. ‘Friend of the Sultan, I do not think. But friend of the Genoese, I am told. You have a ship called the Doria?’
‘That is the name of its former owner. A man who I caused to be killed,’ Nicholas said. ‘Are you here to debate trifles, or is there one who gives you orders and will be displeased if you disobey them? Your lord James expects me in Nicosia. He wishes the woman to wait for him.’
‘It is not so. I will take the woman to him,’ said the emir. ‘I, Tzani-bey al-Ablak, lord of the Mamelukes of Cyprus.’
‘And I say you will not,’ Nicholas said. He struck up as he spoke, deflecting the sword from his arm and dragging the girl to her feet and behind him. At her back was the wall. The emir’s blade swept up and glittered above him.
Vanni Loredano said, ‘No!’ and threw his weight on the Mameluke’s sword-arm. Martini and Erizzo both started forward. What they meant to do was never known, for in a blaze of steel, the doorway became crowded with soldiers. Loredano dropped his grasp. Nicholas stayed where he was. The emir, withdrawing his stare from Loredano, lifted his arm once again. Paul Erizzo spoke in clear Greek. ‘This is the man King Zacco has sent you to bring. Punish him if you will. But if you kill him, you will answer for it to Zacco.’
The emir turned. He said, also in Greek, ‘Tell him to release the woman.’
Nicholas said, ‘I will release her to the monks, not to you. Send the monks, or strike through me, and learn how King James will reward you.’
There was a silence. Behind the open door, the soldiers grinned and muttered and moved; further off came the sounds of other men moving about, mixed with low cries and sobbing and a high-pitched continuous stabbing of sound, like the shrieking of night-hunting owls. The emir laughed and said, ‘On the road, I can do what I like?’
‘You must not kill him,’ said Erizzo. From flushed with heat, the Bailie’s face was now pale with anger.
‘I will not kill him. Fetch the monks,’ Tzani-bey said.
The monk who came first had been crying. The abbot followed and stood in the doorway, intoning Greek in a high nasal voice until Tzani-bey, losing patience, thrust him out of the way. Then others came. As soon as he judged it safe, Nicholas said, ‘My lord Bailie. You have no hope of me unless you take care for the lady.’
Erizzo said, ‘She will be safe now. I am appalled. The emir has power. I can do nothing for you. I am sorry.’
‘You have done enough,’ Nicholas said. He thrust the girl between the robed figures and stood. The emir jerked his head. A pair of armed men came forward, both carrying sacks. They set them aside and laid hands on Nicholas. Other sacks stood outside the door, leaking blood and rammed full of objects.
Mutilation and theft. Nicholas, his wrists twisted together, wondered what the girl’s chances were, or the monks’, if the tyranny of King James was of this order. James, or Zacco, they called him. Zacco the Bastard. One