Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [246]
There had been no news, of course, of the priest or of Bel or of Diniz, since the report that all three had arrived safely in Portugal. Unbidden, there came to the mind of Nicholas, now and then, the recollection of his twenty-five pages of instructions. He knew the gold had reached Lisbon, where it would be converted into transferable funds. He had no doubts that Gregorio and Julius would have disposed of it as he wanted, resuming all that he had begun in Venice and Bruges, Cyprus and Alexandria and Scotland. They should by now have an agent in Scotland.
He had heard nothing, of course, of the legal action he had asked Gregorio to take, concerning both the Ghost and the Fortado. Again, he assumed Gregorio would do the best that he could: tracing Crackbene, finding Ochoa, bringing Tobie back (if he would come), and Astorre. And with such a cushion of gold, the two complaints hardly mattered. He really believed that they hardly mattered. Simon and the Vatachino could do as they pleased. And Henry was out of his hands. Henry was only safe when out of his hands.
He had heard nothing, and in this place would never hear anything, of Gelis van Borselen. More than a year ago, she had decided to leave, and having done that, there was no reason for her to send him a message. If she had, he would have received it by now, through ibn Said.
He himself sent no letters north, but had reason to believe that the caravans sometimes carried short dispatches from Umar. He understood that they conveyed the information that he, Nicholas, was well, and were intended largely – perhaps solely – to prevent any unnecessary expedition to find him. By the time he, Nicholas, had realised what was happening, it was not important enough even to mention.
In that month of February, while the port was still open, there came news of outbreaks of fighting upriver, where the Mandinguas of Mali were confined by the Songhai in the north, and the Fulani of Futa on the west. There had been some gold on its way, which was lost, and men from several tribes killed.
Abderrahman ibn Said, when Nicholas next saw him, was undisturbed. ‘Some years it happens. There are many peoples of different tribes, different persuasions. In good times, they fight as the Songhai do, because they are vigorous, and yearning for power. When the flood is late, or the locusts have come, then they must fight even more, or else starve.’
‘We were fortunate,’ Nicholas said, ‘to make the journey twice from the Gambia?’
‘You were cared for by Allah,’ said ibn Said. ‘The first time, you brought yourselves only, without merchandise, and how many died? The second time, the Koy’s bodyguard protected your freight. It could never happen again. The present Koy would never risk it again. And another time, Gnumi Mansa may not turn Christian for you. He might find it too dangerous.’
Nicholas looked at the worldly, impassive brown-black eyes. He said, ‘You are saying that there will never be trade between Timbuktu and the coast? It is impossible?’
‘Impossible as trade between Timbuktu and Prester John,’ said ibn Said. ‘If you wish to leave Timbuktu, the only sure way is the desert.’
That night, sitting cross-legged in the forecourt of the house of And-Agh-Muhammed al-Kabir and his sons, Nicholas found relief, as he always did, in the measured voices of his fellow guests reading from the books they had brought, and in the careful unfolding and examination of some momentous topic, with many voices contributing, including his own. He knew every man there as a friend: his spectacles flashed on noses black and ruddy and nut-brown, flat and aquiline.
One of them, a son-in-law of the host, raised his head and said, ‘I hear Akil has raided