Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [175]
It was cooler again, and he slept better. That was to say, he never slept a great deal, but latterly had found the knack of resting elude him. Now he fell once or twice into thorough slumber, from which he awoke with a headache. The only person who noticed was Bel, who spent her days peacefully under the hood, reduced in size and in colour but not in spirit. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said. She had cultivated the company of the chicken the crew kept for good luck, and it sat on her lap, making messes.
‘Too much sunshine,’ he said. ‘We are having lungfish. Vito caught one.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Bel.
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Well, he says so.’ He moved away, training his mind on other things. The flood. The flood they said reached Timbuktu during January, and carried the river, or a channel of it, up to the depot. If there was a wharf, there would be a picket of animals. He could get one for Bel. The men and Gelis could probably walk, depending on distance. Depending on distance, they would need packmules for the goods. The upshot was he had better leave them on board and go with Saloum first of all, to look about and call on the headman, who was said to be a Tuareg and unpopular.
Nevertheless, they might qualify for some sort of shelter until he worked out how long they would be staying. How much gold there was, or wasn’t, and how long a wait it would mean to acquire it. He wondered if it was February yet, and was amazed to find that he had lost track of the calendar. It occurred to him that the stores ought to be checked ready for disembarking, and he went off to see Vito and Diniz. They were excited, and therefore talkative, which he found painful.
He realised what was happening. There was nothing he could do about it.
The arrangements seemed to take a long time to make, and he went outside again, where it was fresher. He saw the shore was sandier, although there were bushes. He saw a great silk-cotton tree upholding a snowdrift of slumbering ospreys. He saw some birds from the crane-wheel in Bruges. He began writing things down.
That night, he dreamed he was in a boat. He probably was, for Loppe was rowing. The first time they met, he was swimming. He tried to remember his face, but could only remember how black it was. Black, with a nose as long as a Nubian’s, and black fingers turning the ledger. The sugarcane has done well. Of course it has. But what will you do with no hands?
Someone said, ‘Nicholas?’ and he woke.
The hired boatmen knew, too, that they were getting close to the terminus and a dispute began, which Saloum had to interpret. They wanted money to take them back home. They wanted the boat, perhaps. Nicholas got hold of Diniz and they agreed terms, with a small show of force. If they got the gold, they might have to store it. If they got a lot of gold, he might split the party and send Diniz back to the Niccolò, although he didn’t want to mention that yet. Assuming Godscalc was bent on Ethiopia. Assuming Ethiopia wasn’t where he was beginning to suspect it was. He wondered what to do about Gelis, and then thought he could leave that to Bel and to Godscalc. He remembered that he’d written down none of his plans for the Ghost. He thought he had better lie down, but not yet.
He said to Godscalc, ‘I want to take Saloum ashore and then come back for you. If I don’t, tell the men to row out. I’ve paid them to wait, and they’re due more if they do what I’ve asked them.’ Soon, they all went to sleep, and so did he.
The trouble was Raffaelo Doria, and the child he had snared for his bed in the Ghost. Except that the name of the ship was the Doria, which meant Raffaelo could claim her, unless a black boy could be found to cut his head off. Then old Jordan claimed her instead, and laughed, and hit Nicholas in the face, and took Marian away. Sent Marian away, so that she died of starvation in Cyprus, and her son was killed in a tournament. Although he was so young. He was too young, far too young for a tournament.
Someone said,