The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [268]
Nicholas did not even append an opinion. He merely wrote that he had departed, as he hoped John would wish, to visit the Baron Cortachy and discuss matters of mutual interest. It was obvious, in the interests of the business (he added), that John should not follow.
It was obvious. It was obvious that only part of the futile vagaries of the last week had been due to inattention – to sheer incapacity, wrought, perhaps, by despair. The rest had been deliberate. Whatever was dangerous in Cairo, Nicholas had been willing to draw on himself. Pitching about like a duck with its head off, was the way he himself had described it. It had been partly that, too.
Outside, the rising sun tinted the domes and the towers. John blew out the candle. The city, awake, was already busying itself: the water-camels by the thousand filtering their way tinkling through every alley; the echo of braying as the riding-beasts were forced to their stance; the distant calls: A hatchery of chicks is ready and will be emptied this day! And the faster hoof-beats of the Criers approaching under their banners. Rejoice, people of Misr! The river has risen seven marks during the night!
Chapter 37
THERE WAS A Seraph in the courtyard of the Second Dragoman’s house. Its meek, pimpled head drifted past second-floor casements attached to a long neck, a trunk and four legs. At first, the pilgrims had taken it for a toy on a cord.
Anselm Adorne, Baron Cortachy, did not wish to be reminded of Alexandria, home of such toys. In Alexandria, extirpated from, the civilised comfort of the Genoese fondaco, they had been refused a safe conduct to travel out of the city, and kept under guard until prepared to disemburse the gigantic sum the Emir now saw fit to charge them. Meanwhile fresh officials continually pestered them, demanding dues, imposts, fees for some imaginary service, all of which they were forced to pay. Leaving finally, they had covered the sandy miles to the river by night, supposedly for fear of Bedouin bandits, arriving exhausted and half dead of thirst at noon.
The journey to Cairo could hardly be spoken of – the switch of boats; the commandeering of their wine by drunken Mamelukes; the wading up to the shoulders in water over lacerating ground when the crew suggested the vessel could not otherwise progress between current and shallows – none of them would forget that, or what (or who) caused it.
When, therefore, Anselm Adorne learned that he had a visitor and saw, by opening his lattice, who it was, he refrained from waking Jan, who slept late like all students, or young Lambert who was as bad; or – even worse – the other two. Instead, completing his attire, he descended alone and quietly to the parlour he and his party had been given.
Nicholas de Fleury stood up, releasing the cloth from his face. His beard, though strong, was of only three weeks’ growth, and had been darkened. Pale against tinted skin, his eyes were large and curious as those of the Seraph. He wore a white buttoned robe of thick cotton.
Anselm Adorne said, ‘Ah. Nicomack ibn Abdallah, I believe. What may I offer? Have you eaten?’ The servant waited.
‘I wish nothing, my lord,’ said the other man. He spoke Italian with an Arabic accent. Adorne signed to the servant, who left. Then he sat, folding his own blue galabiyya over the skirts of his doublet. De Fleury, he saw, wore native clothing apparently to the skin. Adorne said, ‘I suppose you have come to apologise?’
Nicholas said, ‘You expected me?’ He was still standing. It was very early. Behind the lattice, they were watering and sweeping the yard. The Seraph lowered its neck.
Adorne brought his eyes back. ‘I saw you from above. You would have been foolish not to come to Cairo, since I had so naively dispatched you to Matariya. I hope you are not going to apologise, for I have no intention this time of forgiving