The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [67]
In the half-naked face, the unimpaired eye glittered and the scarred one folded into a scowl. Astorre said, “D’you think we gave them an inventory?”
“No. But he’d see some of you worked as a team, and hear your language, and learn, of course, that you were their commander. Not just Doria’s men, but all the crews who came aboard will have seen that. How on earth could you have helped it? Your job was to save the ship, and you did. But only Doria has a vested interest in telling the Turks.”
In the uncertain light, the face of Julius showed a bemused fascination. He said, “But Doria couldn’t have started the fire. He was with us.” He paused, and his face changed again. “The daggers? Was the detour to the smiths’ quarter to delay us?”
“I should think so,” said Nicholas. “He needed time for his men. And he likes his sport too. He enjoyed the idea of a challenge.” He stopped, and Tobie saw how shallowly he was breathing. Then he said, in the same, very clear voice, “As for who started the fire…there is one man missing still. A marine, whom no one knew very well. We may find his body. But I rather think he’s now safe and well on the Doria.”
He had half the crew listening now, and throaty murmurs answering him. It was Julius, surprisingly, who said, “I don’t see it. You think he’ll betray Astorre and the rest to the Turks, and get the galley himself as a prize? But you heard him. You may be rivals in trade, but your soldiers will keep all the trading colonies in Trebizond safe. It’s in his interest, too, to get your men past Constantinople.”
“You’d think so,” said Nicholas thoughtfully. “You’d really think so. But what his true interests are, we really don’t know, do we? That was one of the reasons for the little talk I expected to have with him. And it’s really quite an incentive to stop whining and get this galley out to sea after her. For one of the things I fancy least is having Pagano Doria board my ship and kill my men and burn my cargo and sail into Constantinople ahead of me.”
He turned, a youth with a scarred, dirty face, and stared at the crew crammed all about him. “Can we catch her?”
“Yes!” they roared.
John le Grant paid no attention. He said, “You want us to prepare for a race with a round ship? And what after that? Your wool’s gone. You face the cost of repairs. And even if you reach Constantinople before him, the rumour of Astorre and his men may have got there. Why not cut your losses and turn back from Modon?”
“Award a triumph to Messer Pagano?” Nicholas said. The men were shouting still. “They don’t want it. I can’t believe you want it either. And I—I’ve still got this knife with his name on it.”
Chapter 11
WHAT NICHOLAS HAD given was a performance. Well, he was used to that. The accounts of the feats of mimicry, the practical jokes perpetrated in his juvenile past, had always seemed uniquely repellant to Tobie. At the same time he had seldom heard something like this carried off quite as neatly.
At the time he said nothing, but accepted the orders that poured upon him from above and refused to engage in controversy with anybody. He did, upon demand, examine the corpse of the man in the hold and he was able, with every justification, to confirm officially that the man had been done to death before being incinerated. After that, he did what he was told for a number of hours until, according to rota, the time had come for him to sleep. Then, instead of finding his blankets, he watched for Nicholas.
He found him coming up from the main