Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [64]
‘You will hear from me, now,’ Nicholas said. He lifted himself to his knees, the hardest thing he had ever done; and then to his feet, the second hardest. He said, through his bruised, waterless throat, ‘Tell me. Is this Muslim son of a she-pig your master, or do you have a King?’
The blow returned him to the floor. He lifted himself to his knees, and then to his feet. The woman said, ‘That is most unwise. But for my clemency, the emir would have leave to kill you. Whoever commands you to speak, you will reply. What is it to you, where your orders come from?’
‘What is it to you?’ Nicholas said. His throat burned. ‘Do you obey this man, or your son? Who had me brought here, this man, or your son? To whom do I say, I do not serve Carlotta; I will not serve her brother. To this man, or your son? Which is the servant?’
Once, Nicholas had rarely felt anger. In the leisurely journey that had now ended here, he thought he had found again, and would keep, his habit of easy toleration. He had been wrong. The Venetians had lied to him: they would regret it. So too would the man to whom the Venetians pandered. The emir, Nicholas intended to send to his death. It didn’t cross his mind, at any time, that he would fail to do this.
The Egyptian was smiling. The man behind the chair said, ‘Does one answer scum? No. Here, all men are your masters, including this lord and my nephew the King. To them you must look for food and shelter and life itself without expectation or complaint, or the death you will die will make what you complain of seem sweet. Are you answered?’
‘Yes,’ Nicholas said. ‘You are afraid of the Mamelukes. You are the dupe of the Venetians. So what species of ruler is Zacco? A bully, like Tzani-bey, but a doltish bully?’
The woman called Cropnose looked beyond him to the emir. ‘Before you leave, whip him,’ she said. ‘You are due satisfaction. Or if you prefer, my servants will see to it.’
‘It would be more seemly,’ said Tzani-bey al-Ablak. ‘Serfs should discipline serfs. I have Madame’s leave to depart?’
He dropped the chain as he left. The weight, slight as it was, was enough to bring Nicholas to his knees once more, his eyes shut, his head bent. Beatings he had had; punishment he had suffered, but never this. Never what had happened to him on the road from Cape Gata to Nicosia.
He knew, now, that he had used, temporarily, the last of his strength. He remained passive, attempting to gather it. Sounds flowed through his head like the sea. A great door closed: the emir leaving. Another opened, in a different quarter, with a click much more subdued. The soldiers of Cropnose, come to deal with him. A man’s voice, speaking in his own sweet French, said, ‘I cannot forgive myself. I cannot forgive myself. Water, wine, quickly. And the key to these shackles.’ Nicholas opened his eyes.
Kneeling beside him was a man who could have been Anselm or Felix, John or Lorenzo, or any other of the merry, carefree, comely companions who had shared his boyhood in Bruges. This was a young man of their kind, with the bronzed skin and trim build of an athlete, dressed in a plain leather brigandine over a pourpoint and hose like his own. The man’s hair, streaked with the sun, fell over his brow in long, yellow-brown waves which he pushed back, now and then, with a gesture of troubled impatience. His eyes were hazel. He said, ‘Stay still.’ He bent forward, a key in his hands, and unlocked and opened the neck-band. Someone came quickly and lifted the irons away. Then he said, ‘Rinse your mouth and then drink. Slowly. There will be more for you later.’
It was water. Nicholas let it pass his split lips and fill the dust-filled cavity of his mouth, and spat. The third time, his bruised throat moved, and he was able to swallow. A small amount was enough. The young man sat back, and someone came for the cup. The young man turned his head and said, ‘Mother? How could this happen?’
The woman Cropnose sat with her hands lightly folded. Her manner, if slightly softened, remained quite undisturbed. She said,