The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [264]
The gift was a quiver, banded with gold, with a leopard tail fixed to the filigree. Beside it was a brooch with a ruby in it. Tobie took them both from a cushion, offered silently by a turbanned black boy who stepped back at once. Nicholas said, “Lord, my master thanks you for your infinite generosity, and asks how further he may serve you?” He paused, and said, “The illustrious lady Sara Khatun pays ten aspers a day and our food.”
Tobie felt sweat pour down his back. Don’t do it to me. Nicholas.
The red lips of the Sultan made a small movement. It might have been a smile. He said, “Indeed, good camel doctors are hard to find. I do not know whether I could match such munificence. Nor do you know what sort of lord you might have. And if your master were to fail, what skills can you offer?”
Nicholas said, “Lord, I am a dealer.”
“Who is not?” said the Sultan. “But there is occasion for good men of every race in the world of exchange. We are not against trade and, as you see, when we are pleased, we can be generous. For those who cross us, our justice is equally swift. For them, there are quick punishments, and slow ones. I shall consider your offer, and you will witness what the Gate of the Lord can demand. You may watch us dine.”
They kissed the carpet and backed to the cloths of the wall, where they were set to stand in a place of no honour, save that to watch the Sultan eat morning dinner was an honour unparalleled. Tobie pinned the brooch to his chest and stood clutching his quiver. Nicholas said, under his breath, “The black page. He’s grown. Doria’s present to Mahmud in Constantinople.”
They had taken away the Sultan’s fan and were spreading sewn towels before him, and laying one over his arm. Dishes came in. Tobie strangled. Nicholas, interpreting correctly, said, “He didn’t know us. He only saw us in Modon at night.” He stopped talking, because the clatter of tinned copper was ceasing. Every now and then, the Sultan would pick a piece from his dish and throw it to someone. The man in front of Tobie got a gobbet of meat smeared with prunes, and ate it obsequiously. Somewhere, a clerk was reading aloud in Arabic. It sounded learned. Then a long-necked instrument was carried in, and a man took it on his knee and plucked at it with a feather. Buffoons came in, and mutes performing a mime. Pagano Doria came in.
It should not, of course, have seemed shocking. In the recent long, alarming talks between himself and Godscalc, Astorre and Nicholas, the possible defection of Doria had been the first topic. Doria needed a patron, and would choose before long. Now his choice was apparent.
The risk to themselves they had discussed also. Well disguised, in a camp of this size, they should have no trouble in avoiding Doria. They had hardly expected to find themselves in the same pavilion. But even here, they were safely disposed in the rear, with many ranks of men standing before them. And Pagano Doria was a very short man, though a charming one. They could glimpse him kissing the carpet, and then rising, his hat in his hand. His doublet was satin, his best; and his skin was becomingly flushed and his large eyes were open and sparkling. “Illustrious lord,” said Pagano Doria.
Beside Tobie, Nicholas was perfectly still. Tobie wondered what he was thinking. From the beginning, Doria had attacked and teased and frustrated him: from the first meeting with Godscalc at Porto Pisano to the little scheme to discredit Julius before the Medici. Then, growing in virulence, the other sallies had followed. The fire on the galley at Modon. The betrayal of Julius and John. The deliberate onslaught against Nicholas at the Vavuk pass and the attempt at the Tzycanisterion. Since then there had been others, of which Nicholas had said almost nothing.
And yet, in return, Nicholas had not tried to kill Doria, or even to injure him. He had merely done what he had done before, to those he found inconvenient.