Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [240]
By November, they had taken the straps from his limbs, and Nicholas was presuming to walk. His progress was slow, but quite measurable. He had excellent physicians.
He knew, of course, that Gelis and Godscalc had gone, and the gold with them. He had not been in his senses at the time, although he could recall their faces in short, vivid flashes which seemed to indicate that he had not been wholly unconscious. Once they were out of reach, he had found himself awake most of the time. It had been a doubtful blessing. The one constant, for so long as he could remember, was pain.
He had no other complaints. His bed was soft. Day and night, the sweat was smoothed from his skin; the torrid air was perpetually stirred by black, solemn children with fans. When he began to awake, and experience the full, awful weight of what had happened, there had appeared a sequence of quiet, respectful youths bearing books, who had bowed, seated themselves on the ground, and proceeded to read.
The early days of his recovery were shaped, distorted, made hectically lyrical by sweet voices reading in Arabic. The words, flowing on, drew him into no deep current of thought, but described light romances, heroic adventures, mystical Odysseys. He found them soporific.
Then, expecting them one day, he had opened his eyes to the dry voice of the imam Katib Musa. ‘It pleases my lord, to listen to stories for children?’
By then he could move his head, and his arms. Nicholas said, ‘I cannot praise them sufficiently. They have been charmingly, tirelessly read.’
‘They are our youngest scholars,’ said Katib Musa. ‘Unfortunately, it is no longer safe to send them. Here are some books, perhaps more suitable for a grown man.’
He was strong enough, now, to hold another man’s gaze. ‘Why is it no longer safe?’ Nicholas said.
The imam made a small gesture. He was of middle years, and not imposing, but possessed a cold, still authority. ‘You know this city. When the power of the Timbuktu-Koy is low, then that of Akil ag Malwal shows itself. The commander is at the gates, with his army. He knows you have paid your tax to the Koy, and will try to wrest most of it from him.’
Nicholas said, ‘But the Timbuktu-Koy, also, has a bodyguard.’
‘He had one,’ said the imam. ‘But, alas, it is on the Gambia at this moment, protecting your friends and your gold. Forgive me. There is nothing you can do. But it seemed to me that the time had come to distance yourself from children’s stories.’
Umar had tried to smooth it away. ‘It is Akil’s way. It is no fault of yours. There is always some excuse to enter the city and claim more of its wealth than he merits. It is how the city is run.’
‘It should not be so,’ Nicholas said, and read the books, thinking. When he could walk, he went to the imam, and to the Timbuktu-Koy, and to the house of And-Agh-Muhammed, and asked questions. And because he could not walk far, very often the scholars who heard of his questions came to visit him, and talked, and brought books from which they read portions. And these were not children’s books.
By then, he had confronted the central problem of his present life, and obtained from Umar an account of the departure of Gelis and Godscalc. He knew why Godscalc had gone, and was glad. He ought to have been able to guess – he, who was so good at guessing – why Gelis had not stayed, but there were too many imponderables. He asked Umar.
Umar said, ‘She did not give her reasons. I can only tell you that she took long thought before she decided to go. She may have thought it best to part. She may have wanted to draw you after her. She may have thought you would not survive, and she could serve you best by completing your task. I could not read her mind.’
He had paused. ‘All that is sure is that your task is complete. Father Godscalc has returned with the maps and news of Ethiopia which will save others from dying. And your Bank is preserved, and the Charetty company, and the Vasquez. You are free to do as you please.’
‘Tell that to my body,’ Nicholas had answered,