The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [254]
On his way out of the fondaco, prompted by civility and by a curiosity perhaps less well intentioned, Tobie stopped to shake hands with the rest of Adorne’s party with whom, after all, he had travelled from Bruges for three months. He greeted them all: Jan, the lank, fair son, bored with weeks at sea with his father; the young friend Lambert van de Walle, who had imagination and might make a good merchant one day; the older merchant Pieter Reyphin who was of distinguished Ghent blood, like the Sersanders, and was shrewder than he looked. And the priest, John of Kinloch, who had always loathed Nicholas and had been as aggressive and as contemptuous on the journey as he dared, out of Adorne’s hearing.
They all asked after Katelijne. He saw that she was their mascot, and they would never really forgive him, because he had whisked her away.
He left and, grimly anxious, went about the business that mattered. He knew where to find Benedetto Dei. He knew, too, who might have word of any pilgrims travelling west from a Venetian galley at Jaffa. He made both calls, and, emerging soberly from the second, stood for a moment, pushed by the crowds, and studied the vast scarlet sky.
It was near the hour for the curfew. He knew that this time he would have to spend the night at the Venetian fondaco. He entered the gates and stayed a while in the garden. The sun went down, and he was shaken with sneezes.
Because they came ashore after noon, it was some time before Benedetto Dei and Abderrahman ibn Said reached their respective lodgings and the messages that awaited them both. Dei, with the aplomb one would expect from an agent of Tommaso Portinari, decided that Nicholas de Fleury could wait, and went to bed. Ibn Said went immediately to the Venetian fondaco.
He had gone when Tobie made his way there.
Achille, showing Tobie into the room, said, ‘But as you see, the padrone is not here. Come tomorrow.’
Tobie said, ‘The gate’s shut. I can’t come tomorrow. Of course Ser Niccolò’s here. Where is he? What’s the trouble?’
‘None,’ said Achille. ‘He is sleeping.’
‘You said – Get out of my way,’ said Tobie rudely. The man jumped. Tobie didn’t even need to push him aside. In the rooms, which were empty, everything seemed as usual except for one thing. Tobie said, ‘If you really wanted to protect him, you shouldn’t let anyone in. The place reeks of drink. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the man.
Tobie wondered how Nicholas had frightened him. He said, softening his own manner a little, ‘Look. No one will blame you. Everyone is under strain today. Did Ser Niccolò have a visitor?’
The under-agent clasped his hands. ‘A Muslim gentleman called. I brought sherbet.’
‘But not after the Muslim visitor went. What was his name?’ Tobie said. ‘Was it ibn Said?’
‘Very like,’ said Achille. ‘A merchant from Timbuktu, or his brother. He talked, and went away. It was daylight then. Later, the page came from lighting the candles and told me.’
‘Told you what?’ The candles were lit.
‘That Ser Niccolò would not let him come in. I waited. Then I came myself. I lit the rooms. But he had gone.’
The man was pale. Tobie said, ‘If you went round the fondaco tonight, you’d find a good few men drowning their sorrows. Go to bed. I’ll spend the night here. He’ll come back, or I’ll find him.’
He must have sounded reassuring, because the man went.
Standing in the silent rooms, Tobie considered a paradox. Of all the men he had known, Nicholas de Fleury had the gift of entering the minds and thoughts of others. Now Nicholas de Fleury was the object of analysis, and it was for his doctor to guess whether this night he required rescue or