Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [159]
Melchiorre opened his eyes. ‘My lord, I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘It was my fault,’ Nicholas said. ‘Was it Bati’s men?’
‘Mostly. They have him.’
‘Lopez?’
Melchiorre shut his eyes and opened them. He said, ‘The Fortado has gone. Downstream. With Crackbene. The pinnace eastwards. With Lopez.’
‘Don’t talk,’ Nicholas said.
Godscalc leaned forward, hands busy. ‘I need my box from the ship.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Bel.
‘No,’ said Nicholas. He was easing Melchiorre free of his rags. ‘Someone else.’
Godscalc stopped and looked up. He said, ‘You’ve lost them all. You’ve lost them all, Nicholas?’
‘No,’ Nicholas said with great patience. ‘They are all on the ship.’
They were, all of them, still on the San Niccolò. Esteväo was yet at the helm, cut down perhaps while trying to save her. The other helmsman had fallen defending him. The sick men had both been beheaded: one below, one by the hatch of the hold, a bloody knife in his hand. Vicente stood on the forecastle – stood, because arrows piercing his chest and his belly had transfixed him to the foremast. And below where his open eyes stared lay the heavy body of Luis, his whoring ended, his last story told, and his hand gripping the dead hand of Lázaro who lay, a slow-match quenched in blood at his side.
Bel found them when, flouting authority, she and Gelis arrived, with da Silves. Saloum helped her aboard. The blood, the splinters, the gougings were proof enough that Vicente’s men had fought for their lives, but there were no enemy wounded or dead lying anywhere. They had been removed, along with all that a native would value.
The cabins and chests had been ransacked. The holds were empty, but for some barrels of water and pig lard. And the pens and stalls were deserted as well. All the livestock had gone, and the three precious horses, saved with such pains to carry them on the rest of their journey. All that remained were some random objects, dropped in haste or overlooked in their places of stowage, Godscalc’s travelling box being among them. And, apart from her boats, the ship and her gear had been spared.
‘They were Muslims like you,’ Gelis said.
‘Muslims,’ said Saloum. ‘But not like me.’
She said, ‘This we know, for you saved us. You are wise. What are we to do? Melchiorre is alive. He says Lopez went with them.’
‘They took Lopez,’ said Saloum. ‘The Genoese took him by force.’
‘How do you know?’ She was filthy; her face had the soiled sheen of soapstone.
‘He expected it. He told me. He left a mark in the cabin.’
‘Show me,’ she said. Bel followed. It was a strange mark: cabalistic; drawn on the bulkhead in what was certainly blood. Gelis said, ‘Does that mean you can track him?’ Bel stared at her.
Saloum said, ‘I am not meant to answer.’
‘Wait,’ said Gelis. The lamps had been stolen, but there was a makeshift fire in the sandbox: its light, flaring, showed her his face. She said, ‘What do you mean? You may have a chance, by this sign, to trace Lopez. Why should you tell no one else?’
‘In case they fall into danger,’ said Saloum. ‘Lopez is concerned for his friend. For this Nicholas.’
Bel said, ‘Never mind danger to yon one. If there’s a way to track Lopez, you do it. Come, lass. The physics are needed.’
Jorge punted them back to the shore. From the ship, the bonfire looked small, Godscalc tiny. Melchiorre had been brought and set with the other three wounded. An insect appeared on the strand: a log boat from some fisher village village with their own men carrying it. Bel said, ‘What d’ye think, Senhor da Silves? Yon’s a tragedy. Maybe it’s a sign we should turn.’
He dug the oar in. ‘Maybe you should,’ he said. ‘The ship will repair. Gnumi Mansa is friendly. He’d give her a berth and watch over her. You could sail back to him and then wait for us.’
‘You are going on in spite of what’s happened?’ Gelis said. ‘If Doria’s alive, he’ll surely follow us. And if he’s dead, the Fortado couldn’t rest, could it, until we’re all put away?’
‘No. Not at all.