The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [57]
Now Nicholas said, “If we meet him on shore, we expect you to shame him with courtesy. Don’t get into a brawl; it would suit him. In fact, I’d like to know what little snare he’s prepared for us here. I’d like to know why he waited here. Look. There’s a galley from Rhodes at the steps. We’ll get news.”
“We’ll get it from Acciajuoli,” Julius said. “Your privately contracted passenger with the wooden leg. Your oracle, as it were. Wood, you know. Why not a log of this trip for the Golden Fleece? You might get a knighthood. No, I’d suit it better. You’re the Ram and I’m Jason. We need a Medea.”
“Tobie,” said Nicholas. “Give him a wig and he’ll cook up some poison. We’ll send it to the Doria.” Julius was reassured.
It was their eighth landfall. They knew all the formalities. They received the Bailie’s invitation and enjoyed his rumney and were informed that their wooden-legged oracle Acciajuoli had been detained in Patras, but should be ready to join them by sailing time. Only Nicholas seemed to find that exasperating. They fell, rather quickly, into their routine for repair and provisioning and added an extra precaution. From the moment of berthing, the Ciaretti was guarded. And her crew were not allowed on shore; only her officers.
The precaution, though wise, seemed unneeded. If Doria intended some mischief, it had not so far become apparent, although the town was full of his men. In the course of the day’s business Julius glimpsed and nodded to Crackbene, the Doria captain. The other man responded without rancour. Later, Nicholas came face to face with Doria himself, getting into his skiff.
He had expected it, but was still chilled with some sense of foreboding. It was stupid to take Doria seriously. Whatever it turned into at Trebizond, their rivalry so far was no more than a boys’ competition. Once, he would have delighted in it, and the chance to use all his ingenuity. Now he was not so sure. He had counted on Acciajuoli to prime the Venetian Bailie with all he ought to know about the Charetty company. Instead, Acciajuoli had not yet arrived, and all the Bailie knew had been imparted by Pagano Doria. Chance had given Doria a new weapon: he needed no other. And he had had time, too, to protect himself against anything the Ciaretti might do. Le Grant, pestered by Julius, had produced a number of ingenious ways of blighting the Doria, such as feeding rats by the score up the anchor-chain. Nicholas had put a stop to it. Julius had returned to his depression. Well, Julius would have to wait.
Now Doria looked up from the skiff, his feathers blowing, and said, “The greyhound of the seas, my dear man. If I hadn’t been held up in Corfu, you wouldn’t have glimpsed me until the Black Sea. But never mind. I hear we shall see you at supper tonight?”
It was news, but it needn’t appear so. “Unless we sail first,” said Nicholas. “How are you for cheese? We have more than we need. I’ll send a box over.”
“But how kind!” said Doria. “What can we give you, that you would appreciate?”
“I shall try to think of something,” Nicholas said.
On board, Nicholas saw Godscalc was watching him. Godscalc said, “This supper party. You’re worried?”
The question was what he needed. It was all ridiculous: he saw it, and laughed. “Not really. With Tobie’s Latin and Julius’s Greek and John’s guns and your God, our total resources will blind a mere Bailie.”
“You have come so far on your wits,” said Godscalc in his dulcet German-tinged Flemish. “You have no need to doubt them.”
“I don’t,” said Nicholas. “A pack of cards and a song, and they’ll love me.” He added, in case of misunderstanding, “It’s all right. But I know what I’d do, if I were Pagano Doria.”
The evening unfolded, and he watched himself being proved right. The Bailie’s seamen, who fetched them, provided their escort to the gates of his palace. It was impressive, as Venice intended. It was more old-fashioned than, say, the new Medici house in Milan, but reminded him of it in its profusion