The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [230]
He had never been completely alone with her. Since arriving in Trebizond, he had encountered her only a few times since the interview on the day of his audience. Then they had talked about clocks, and he was grateful. During his absence in Erzerum she had made that curious visit to the fondaco. Before it, she had consented to see John le Grant, and had not been unhelpful. It seemed very likely that she had both put his life in hazard, and then saved it. Ever since his return from Erzerum, his dealings had been with Diadochos: through Diadochos he had paid for what he had sent off with Julius. He had seen her in attendance before the Empress set sail; and occasionally since, in the company of the princess Anna, and Maria, the Emperor’s sister-in-law. But never alone. Why was she alone now, and studying him?
She was standing at a window embrasure. Between the slender pillars and arches the air could be felt, moist as a sponge, pressing out scents of mulched earth and strong flowers and peeled wood and brine from the gardens of the western ravine far below, and the hills beyond, and the sea. She was fully dressed; her gown geometric as one of his puzzles. It was not like coming upon her of a sudden at night, in her cabin. Then, she had had the old woman with her. Then, she had stood by her bed and not in a window embrasure: regal; inimical; naked.
He knew now how her body looked, under its gown. He had trained himself not to think of it, and mostly succeeded except when, as now, hunger reminded him. He beat it back, and kept his eyes open and his smile deferential and mild. He bowed, and didn’t avoid the light which showed her his face. He was the toymaster, not Violante of Naxos. She said, “You sought Diadochos. You have news?”
Her voice told him nothing. He said, “I am sorry. Bad news, Despoina. There is no army coming from Georgia.”
The face-painting, delicate, uniform, made them all look, he thought, like encaustic icons. Only under each tinted eye was a line of distant amusement that seemed wholly her own; and the way her lips curled when she spoke. She wore earrings made like small fish in a shoal, glinting from ear to shoulder within the gilt scrolls of her hair. She said, “We have heard what has befallen the Empress my great-aunt. We have heard the tidings from Sinope and, having intelligence, are in no doubt what should be done about both. Another has need of your services.” She raised her voice. “You may come in.”
A curtain stirred and was held aside, to allow a short figure to enter the room. Bronze hair and blue eyes and fresh, blooming colour. It was not Marian, but her daughter, Catherine. He got his breath back but did not use it to say anything that would please the lady Violante, who was a better toymaster than he was. A cord round his middle, and running. He redeemed his mind, and set it to confront the new problem.
Marian’s daughter was overdressed, as she always was, with elaborate earrings and a pleated gown whose neckline dipped front and back, and whose long sleeves were stuffed at the shoulders, making her face and collarbone thinner. She had drawn her hair up to a crown-cap like Marian’s and today, for some reason, she was standing like Marian; her back rigid, her feet a little apart. At first, he thought it might be deliberate and then he saw that she felt herself facing a challenge.
Once she would have run to him. Once, of course, she would have come to him direct, instead of through someone else. She had not done so. He did not, therefore, smile; but said, “The lady Catherine. How may I serve you?”
She had been looking at his beard. She lifted her gaze. She said, “I’m afraid of Pagano.” She stared into his eyes, her own wide.
He said, “Why?”
At