The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [173]
Then it was the turn of le Grant on his own, and he had found himself, with no levity at all, explaining once more the history of the parrot he had sent by roundship to Nicholas de Fleury.
It had been a brief conversation, for Nicholas had guessed, of course, that he was the sender, and that the bird was connected somehow with the missing shipmaster Ochoa de Marchena, who had disappeared when sailing from Africa, along with four to five hundred pounds of pure gold, owned by the Banco di Niccolò and never recovered.
And, naturally, Nicholas had also recognised the mimicked voice they both knew, which spoke Cypriot Greek as well as sweet French. The voice of Zacco, King of Cyprus, who had once been very well liked.
John produced his submission. ‘Whoever sent the parrot wants you in Alexandria. And I don’t know who sent it. It came to me from an Arab trader from Tor, and he got it from a chain of other people. I was to send you the bird, and they said you would know it was intended for you, because of the Spanish. They meant, of course, you would know it was linked with the gold.’
He paused. Sometimes, as now, the bastard didn’t even bother to put on an expression. He went on, ‘I recognised Zacco’s voice, too. I nearly plucked and stewed the brute instead of sending it on. Friendship with Zacco is not, at the moment, a recipe for advancement.’
‘It never was,’ Nicholas said. ‘His voice could have been accidental. The parrot belonged to his household. Or don’t you remember?’
John remembered all right. Zacco rarely spoke Greek. Zacco called no one else Nikko. He said, ‘We have to go to Alexandria anyway. If someone wants you so much, no doubt they’ll find you.’
There was a silence. Nicholas said, ‘Crackbene sold it.’
‘I shouldn’t necessarily blame him,’ said John. ‘I was afraid to write, and the bird was dumb to begin with. Did you bring it?’
‘It would have been sick. I brought its repertoire. I can’t make anything of it. But why send a slow parrot instead of a fast letter?’
‘Ochoa couldn’t write. Or you wouldn’t be sure the message was from him. Or a parrot-cypher was safer.’
‘Or it wasn’t urgent.’ He spoke as if the idea had just occurred to him. Then he ended the interview.
An hour later, Gregorio was summoned and told to bring John and Diniz to hear an outline of the company’s changed plans. Gregorio looked round and said, ‘I’ll get Tobie,’ and was stopped by the voice from the ice-floe. ‘Why not leave him? I am sure he is tired.’
The previous night, Godscalc’s last night on earth, Tobie had been missing for part of the evening and Nicholas for rather longer. John, a light sleeper, had seen Tobie return. Nicholas he had only heard. But Nicholas had gone straight to Godscalc and had stayed, through dark, dawn and morning, until Godscalc’s sleep sank towards death.
He had supervised, then, what had to be done, before transferring the same untrammelled competence to the company desk. He had seen Astorre. He had talked to John himself, without excitement, about gold. Now, calling them together, he had set himself to explain his new plans for the Bank and the Charetty company: plans which must have been worked out through that long, silent death-watch; plans which made no mention of Scotland. And Tobie, by arbitrary decision, was excluded.
Afterwards, Gregorio took John to Tobie’s chamber. The doctor had had some sleep, but not quite enough: there were great purses round his pale eyes and his bald head was creased. Under the sheet he was childishly furry. Gregorio said, ‘We’ve just had a meeting. Nicholas wouldn’t send for you. I’ve brought you some ale.’
‘I’ve missed you all the time you were in Scotland,’ said Tobie, taking it. He waved the mug at John and drank from it as they