The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [287]
‘Not even if you meant it,’ said the other man. His voice fell attenuated on the air. As the water had risen, so the echo had gone.
‘No. I would hardly ask for what I already have. So this is farewell. You can’t be surprised. It was, forgive me, an unequal contest. I am told, however, that drowning is not an unpleasant end, compared with torture. I have to make you my excuse over that. I gave the Dragoman no such orders. However. Will it ease the pain if I set you a task?’
‘I shall hear you out,’ de Fleury said. As he tired, he was coughing continuously.
De Salmeton expressed courteous amusement. He said, ‘You mentioned Sir Anselm. He had something to give you. I have it. Indeed, it belongs to you: you and your wife. Can you guess what it is? All the way from Jaffa to Cairo?’
And he held up the wedding ring of Gelis van Borselen.
The reaction repaid all his pains. Now de Fleury tried for the first time to move. Now, using the last of his powers, he attempted to throw himself over the water; seize the steps; snatch the ring.
It was laughably out of his reach. Nevertheless, at the first movement, de Salmeton pulled back his arm. ‘So dive for it,’ he remarked; and tossed the ring low and far into the water.
He looked to smile into the glittering eyes but the man had thrown his head back, striving to follow the trajectory; to distinguish the ring as it dropped with an invisible gulp in the darkness. Then there came the sob of drawn breath, and the crash and spatter of water as the other man dived.
‘My lord?’ said the Mameluke behind him. ‘Shall we unblock the rest of the conduit?’
‘No,’ said David de Salmeton. ‘Let it brim. What is a little water? The Chief Dragoman will not mind. Then, when we are sure, we can open the lock and let the level drop back.’
He stayed some moments longer to watch. He had, however, thrown the ring deliberately outside the circle of light, and no matter how far he held out the lantern, he could see nothing now but the swaying, chuckling water, completing its rise to the roof. Whether or not he dredged up what he wanted so badly, Nicholas de Fleury would not survive to enjoy it, that was sure.
He lay in a beautiful mosque. The dome above him was profusely inlaid; damascened with turquoise and gold-leaf and ivory, within which the sacred name unfolded over and over: In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate. From the fretted roundel of windows the amber light of late afternoon suffused the structures of lattice about him, sheening the walls and columns of marble, lighting the deep-carved bands of Cufic inscription: We send down rain as a blessing from heaven, whereby we cause gardens to fruit, and grain to issue to harvest.
He smiled; moved. He thought of rain, puddling the yard; hissing into the dyevats. Rain alternating with snow, causing Astorre to curse as he dragged his army over the mountains. Rain in depressing, slow slurs which sent the masons obdurately indoors, even though one last course of bricks would see his furnace secure, his plan for Scotland one stage further. Rain in soft, melting torrents dissolving a city; forming a tent for his love …
Hast thou not seen how that God has sent water …?
His eyes, half open, dwelled on the inscriptions. God had sent water. He was in the presence of water as he lay. At his hand, beyond a wooden tapestry woven by angels, he saw a white octagonal pillar with curious marks. Leaning a little, he saw that it rose from a rectangular pool, whose surface shimmered and moved in a way that made him uneasy. He recoiled at first, and then came slowly and fully into his senses, to find himself wrapped in shawls and laid upon deep, soft-piled carpets; watched by five men sitting quietly on cushions.
The two nearest him smiled. One said, ‘Allah-u akbar. We felt we must explore with you further the Platonic interpretation of madina jamaiyya.’
Voices calling; hands attacking a grille. Other hands bearing him upwards; carrying him choking from water to air, from air to