The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [229]
Thirty miles from Alexandria the Emir’s ship came, as was the custom, to board them; to take details of their names and their cargo and send these by pigeon to the governor, who would fly the news by the same means to Cairo. This wasn’t the Tyrol. By the time the Ciaretti reached Alexandria their reception, one way or the other, would be assured.
He was fairly sure of a welcome. Six years before, it would have been different. Then he and his army had been fighting for the island of Cyprus, hated for a hundred years here since one of its kings had taken Alexandria with an army of mercenaries – Scots, Venetians, Genoese – and left its people massacred in the ruins which had never been rebuilt. Six years ago he wouldn’t have been welcome because he served Cyprus, and because he and Zacco the King had just managed to kill Tzani-bey, the Mameluke commander in Cyprus, and all his army.
Zacco had bought forgiveness from Cairo, and his merchants traded with Egypt again, even though one Muslim at least had tried to kill him for what he had done. In Venice, Nicholas too had been a target that year. But Nicholas no longer drew fees from Cyprus; and there was a new, astute Sultan in Cairo, and an Emir in Alexandria whom John le Grant had cultivated with success. The Ciaretti’s guns were there, but they were covered in peace and submission. It was left to the Mameluke vessel to fire a salute.
Truth to say, through the flame and crash of it, no one spoke. They were traders; they were not a Venetian galley, and the banners they flew were well known by now in the Middle Sea. But mistakes were sometimes made by Muslims wishing to gratify larger neighbours. Then the smoke cleared and instead of the glitter of scimitars you could see the coloured clothes, the tall hats, the white turbans at the rails of the opposite ship. Her oars steadied her, and she prepared to lower a boat. A flourish of trumpets spoke from the Ciaretti and the other replied. The Ciaretti’s sails began to come down, and John le Grant raced below, reassured, for his hat with the brooch and his coat.
When he emerged, the Emir’s officials were already climbing aboard and Nicholas was preparing to welcome them. The sun sparkled on gold. John saw with relief that the newcomers were mostly familiar. Self-important, disagreeable, greedy, but people he knew. No palace revolution, then, in his absence. It meant that the Emir’s policy, too, was unchanged. It didn’t mean more than that.
He introduced each man to Nicholas, and Nicholas made his responses in Arabic. They had argued about that. It was not expected; in some quarters it was even held to lower one’s standing. Le Grant used it himself, but then he wasn’t head of the company, and he kept his Scots accent throughout, in case anyone thought he was making concessions. But Nicholas didn’t. He spoke the beautiful measured Arabic of the schools, seldom heard even among Mamelukes, and they looked at him with attention, filing aboard and down the steps to the great cabin.
The party seemed to be complete. Nicholas had turned and John was ready to follow him when a dry voice spoke in Tuscan from the gangway. ‘Well, Niccolò!’
Nicholas wheeled. John le Grant stared at the man in European dress who had spoken; at his baggy boots and short coat and brimmed hat with the under-ties fluttering. The frowning eyes in the sun-pinkened face were not looking at him. John exclaimed. ‘Tobie!’
The doctor’s gaze flicked to him and held.
‘He thought you were in Pavia,’ said Nicholas. ‘He thinks we are surrounded by demons who can be in two places at once. Are you all here? The eminent Baron Cortachy and the rest?’
‘No,’ said Tobie. He stepped forward slowly. ‘No, they all rode north to sail from Genoa. We found a boat and came earlier.’
‘We?’ said Nicholas. He looked perfectly normal, except that he was still speaking Arabic.
Tobie looked at him. He said, ‘Gelis is still with Adorne. You know she joined us?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘And you stayed at Pavia.’
‘Yes. Well, I heard my uncle was