Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [65]
‘She will, to someone,’ Nicholas said. ‘She has at least two other offers. One of them from me.’
Along the wall, someone spoke. Against the deep blue of the night and the black rounded chain of the hills, nothing moved. Nicholas added tranquilly, ‘It wasn’t serious. I couldn’t afford it. It was only to slow matters down. But for some reason Simon has left, and she has the decision to make.’
Diniz said, ‘You think I should go back.’
And Nicholas said, ‘I think Jordan thinks you should go back. He paid Simon, I’m told, to get out of Portugal. And that leaves only you.’
‘I won’t be coerced,’ Diniz said.
‘No,’ said Nicholas.
Silence fell. Instead of the irritations and tedium of the campaign, Diniz found his mind invaded again by the fear his grandfather inspired; the angry pity for Lucia his mother; his disillusionment with Simon, that flower of chivalry her brother. He knew he ought to go back, and that he wouldn’t. Not even for Nicholas, who had searched him out to tell him. Searched him out, incongruously dressed as a ship’s clerk from a galley. I had a call to make anyway.
Diniz said, for the second time, and much more abruptly, ‘Why are you here?’
Then Nicholas stirred. He wrinkled his nose like a dog and sat the eyeglasses on it again. ‘Guess,’ he said.
Further along the walls, out of sight, someone was whistling. Below in the town, a donkey brayed, and a dog began to bark, and broke off with a squeal. A scent of incense floated up from the mosques turned into churches, together with the smells of humanity and of the sea. In the bay, the lanterns of the fleet that had brought the Burgundians festooned the darkness and, by their interrupted reflections, gave substance to the host of small boats that also littered the water.
Nicholas had sailed in the supply ship that had come in from Lagos today; a great galley of Florentine build that had seen long and hard service. He knew what ships Nicholas had. This one fitted all he knew of the Ciaretti, which had stayed with the Bank all the time that Nicholas had been in Cyprus.
He had watched her come in, flying the Portuguese flag. He had watched the fuss she made, seeking a berth, before settling next to one of the troopships. Diniz had paid little attention. Otherwise he would have realised sooner that he recognised the roundship beside her, because he had sailed in that same ship from Cyprus. She was the Doria, the vessel which Jordan and Crackbene had stolen. Diniz said, without explanation or context, ‘You can’t!’ His breath caught.
He felt Nicholas move. Nicholas said, ‘I hope the garrison can manage without it. Wouldn’t you think so?’
Diniz boiled with frustration. ‘You can’t. How can you?’
He heard, rather than saw, Nicholas give a smile. Nicholas said, ‘It wasn’t hard to arrange. There’s only a watchman aboard, and a roundship doesn’t need much of a crew. We’ll transfer twenty-five mariners, and they’ll take her over to Spain before daylight.’
‘And then where?’ Diniz said. ‘Jordan leased her to Portugal for a year.’
‘She wasn’t Jordan’s to lease,’ Nicholas said. ‘You don’t mind? By the time she lifts anchor, you won’t be on watch.’
He had thought of everything. Diniz said, ‘You’re going with her?’
‘Great God no,’ Nicholas said. ‘Triadano and I have to stay behind, expressing sympathy and completing our business.’
‘Of course,’ Diniz said. ‘And then to Venice, picking up the rescued roundship on the way.’ It was neat, and successful, and brilliant. He said, his eyes damp, ‘I don’t suppose you need an able dyeworks apprentice?’ Then he said, ‘It’s all right. I didn’t mean it.’
Nicholas said, ‘I know you didn’t. I asked you if you were taking the Cross?’
Diniz’ head ached. He said with sudden conviction, ‘No. I don’t belong here.’ He stopped. He said, ‘I suppose I should go back to Lagos.’
‘Only you can decide,’ Nicholas said. ‘But if you want, I can carry you. I have to take the Ciaretti back to load cargo. She does sail back to Venice, but I have to stay and make money. The Bank and the Charetty