The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [271]
John of Kinloch made the sign of the cross. ‘We should pray for him.’
Adorne saw his son had calmed. Picking his way round the room, the lad stopped and turned. ‘What will happen to him? Claes?’
Adorne sat. He said, ‘He is not an agent, like John le Grant, following the expected forms of behaviour. He is a rich and powerful young man who has chosen to mingle disguised in the marketplace and whose company, it would seem, already lies under the Sultan’s displeasure. He has done what is forbidden, and may lie in prison for life. He may be tortured to find what more he has done. If they think him a spy, he will be put to death afterwards.’
‘How?’ said his son. Then without waiting he said, ‘But he has killed people. He tried to kill you.’
‘So he deserves to be punished,’ Adorne said.
Had they looked, they would have found Nicholas close at hand, although not in the street. The mosque was small, and its madrasa no more than a tree in the yard under which the teacher sat, his boys intoning around him. Inside the mosque, his sandals laid sole to sole neatly before him, Nicholas occupied a corner, impalpable as a shadow. For the moment, he was as safe there as anywhere. And he could not have gone further. No man should be asked to die twice.
Ma fat mat: what is sped is dead, said the Arab. But what had sped was not dead. He believed the insubstantial thing he had heard, for there were so many reasons for believing it. And most of all because someone had made sure the message should reach him. Someone who – perhaps? – had been most alarmed to discover that the game had unwittingly stopped.
It was quiet. Men came and went noiselessly on the carpets. The buzz of prayer was thin and homely, and quite unlike the thrilling resonances from the Jingerebir. His thoughts began to assemble again, doubtfully, as if afraid of abuse. He did not at once remember the dangerous talent he had found in the Tyrol: the gift he had already employed on this journey before arresting its tortuous, finely judged progress. When he did, he drew a short breath. Then he closed his eyes, and concentrated his thoughts on one thing.
Presently he rose, having performed, deep in thought, the rite he knew so well, and went out through the school. On the way he capped a delighted child with his headscarf, and bought another, chaffing the vendor, from among those that hung for sale on the wall. Then he set off towards the Khan el Kalili bazaar.
He remembered where he had been sitting, the day the eunuch had leaned, scented, beside him and whispered an outrageous invitation from his mistress. He remembered where he had been trading verses and music when the other, more courteous approach had been made; and the house he had been taken to.
It was not hard to find it again: a merchant’s home, rising two timber-built storeys above the shop-arches below, with its windows projecting over the alley. Fear of Adorne was not in his mind, nor even concealment. He stood looking up at the worked wooden mashrabiyya, behind which anyone might be watching. So hidden, the merchant’s concubines had witnessed his entertainment that day. He had felt invaded by their desires, their agitation as he sang. It had disturbed him. He had not asked himself why.
No one stirred, or came out. But no one barred his way when he climbed the steps and, passing an unguarded door, entered the same room as before. Inside, someone was sitting alone, a fan languidly stirring. Nicholas stopped. The person spoke without turning. ‘Dear me, Nicholas. You are becoming predictable. She said you would come.’
The voice was that of a man. Recognising it, Nicholas felt little surprise. Equally, he was half prepared for the rush of bare feet which immediately followed; but although his knife was in his hand, he had little chance to wield it before he was knocked down.
He was aware, between the second-last blow and the last, that the fan was waving thoughtfully