The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [302]
At the top he came to rest, as if waiting. He had paused before; she had heard the delays. He was not in a hurry. She thought of stepping forward; forcing him into premature speech, but she knew him too well. Unless it suited him, he wouldn’t respond. And when he did respond, every word would have its place in the game. The resumed game. The different game.
All this time he was looking at her; one sexless, anonymous figure facing another across the limited space. When at length he moved, he merely walked forward two paces and stopped again. Then he lifted the torch, the sleeve falling back from the vertical line of his forearm. It was like the signal for the launch of a race, or for the start of a series of contests. The light sped across her face and his own, identifying them to each other. The face was the face of the man she had seen below; stony in its concentration. Then he drew back his arm, and hurled first the brand, then his stick into the darkness.
They dropped, the stick first, the other lumbering wrapped in its flame. Finally they both tilted and fell, jerked about in the wind like spent arrows. Fire-dust lingered in snatches, then went out, leaving absolute darkness, and cold.
He said, ‘C’est alors la fin? J’espère que oui.’
I take it this is the end? I hope so.
She used the same elegant language they both spoke. ‘The end of what, mon époux? Of our match, after only two years? Of life? Hardly.’
The word was licked from her tongue by the wind. She could hear his uninflected voice through the bluster of sound. ‘Comme il te plaît. I am armed; so are you.’
The knife lay out of sight under her girdle. She said, ‘I protect myself. What other end do you mean?’
‘The end of deception,’ he said. He waited. ‘You have brought your wrongs here, and me to hear them.’
‘And then you will use your dagger?’ she said.
Until then, they had been standing. Now she saw, as the sky emptied behind him, that he had found a rock, and had lowered himself upon it. It was not far away, but not threatening. He said, ‘You wouldn’t have come if you thought that.’
‘I considered it,’ she said. She felt able, now, to move to a ledge and sit down herself. Her limbs trembled. She said, ‘But I have the child.’
‘So you say,’ he said. ‘Did Simon ask you to go back to Scotland?’
She had realised, in the last few moments, that it was possible that she was going to die. She had seen the change, as the Patriarch had, but had not understood it. She clenched her teeth to still them. Then she said evenly, ‘He usually does. As you see, I refuse.’
‘You should have gone,’ he said; and sounded amused. Then he said, ‘It’s cold. Let’s get it over with. Why the drowning in Cairo? Revenge for Lucia, of course. But why not the long game? Because you can’t pretend there’s a child any longer?’
‘Drowning?’ she said. Faintly, she could distinguish his features. The mask was not one she knew. He was holding something in his hand.
He said, still amused, ‘You know nothing of it. It was arranged by Tzani-bey’s sister. But you recognise this?’
She was too wise to move. ‘Tell me.’
‘Your wedding ring. From David de Salmeton.’
‘Well, of course,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to know I was alive. I didn’t know you were going to give in. That is really what you mean? You can’t keep up? You want to end it?’
‘I am going to end it,’ he said. ‘But first, I want to know why you did it. I want to hear you admit there is no child. That is all.’
She could see his face. She could see the rocks growing distinct all about him. She could see the gold in his hand. He suddenly stood.
So did she. She said, ‘Then listen. My object is to remind you of pain, as often as possible, and for as long as possible. Barring accidents, therefore, I am not likely to shorten my programme. If Alessandra Strozzi writes to you, you will know that I have said so already. You may believe it.’
‘I do,