To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [179]
‘A wreck. The prize of the first person to reach it. I have sent your scaffmaster to watch her tonight, and we shall see what needs doing tomorrow.’
‘I seem to remember,’ said the other, ‘that I was the first person to reach her?’
Nicholas pondered. ‘I have it,’ he said. ‘You take the man Martin to ransom, and I shall take the equivalent worth from her cargo.’
The other man thought. ‘That seems fair,’ he remarked.
‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘Where I come from, we seal a pact with some wine. That was what was wrong with the last deal we made. There was no wine. You remember.’
‘I am not sure that I do,’ said Paúel Benecke. ‘But I am willing to celebrate this one. Nevertheless I have to warn you: I have a very hard head, as you see.’
‘Would you like to make a wager?’ said Nicholas.
Two hours after midnight, a semaphoring lantern in the cold windy dark announced the return of the boat which had gone to the wreck of the Unicorn. It was full of exhausted men on their way to the Maiden; their physician, grim of face, insisted on boarding the Svipa to report. Father Moriz, roused, met him and listened. Then he said, ‘Follow me. The patron will have to hear this.’
Had he been less disgusted with Nicholas, he would have left the man outside the cabin. As it was, the priest flung open the door and ushered him in. ‘Go and tell him yourself.’
‘Which one?’ said the physician distastefully.
Father Moriz moved forward. The bodies of Crackbene and Lutkyn Mere, both snoring heavily, first caught the eye, an overturned tankard between them. A third recumbent form, languidly stirring, turned out to be that of Paúel Benecke, his bandages scarlet.
‘Dear God!’ said the physician, starting forward. ‘Dear God, is that blood!’
The Danziger slowly looked down. ‘Dear God,’ he repeated. ‘Oh, dear heaven, thank heaven, it is. Is there any more of the wine?’
‘Behind you. You lost the wager,’ said Nicholas. ‘Check. Yuri, you bastard, it’s check.’
‘It isn’t,’ said the voice of the Muscovite. The box upon which the chess was laid out could hardly be seen, so fragmentary was the candle beside it. Both the players sat preternaturally upright.
Father Moriz said, ‘You’re both drunk. I thought you were waiting for news of the Unicorn.’
‘Are we?’ said Nicholas.
‘No,’ said Yuri.
‘Yes we are,’ said Paúel Benecke from the floor. He had lain down again.
‘But not till the candle goes out,’ Yuri said. ‘We have a wager.’
‘You are not concerned about fifty men’s lives?’ Moriz asked.
The Muscovite sketchily crossed himself. ‘When the candle goes out,’ he said. ‘Mate.’
The candle went out. ‘Hell,’ said Nicholas.
‘Not here,’ said Paúel Benecke drowsily. ‘You do not invoke Hell on this island. Who won?’
‘He did,’ said Nicholas. His voice, in the darkness was placid. ‘Martin is going to Moscow.’
‘What?’ said the physician.
‘Martin of the Vat – Martin is going to Moscow,’ said Paúel. ‘Yuri has won him from Nikolás.’
Father Moriz, groping, found the lamp and laid hands on the tinder. ‘Martin is not going to Moscow,’ he said. ‘Nor is anyone else on the Unicorn. The doctor is waiting to tell you his news.’ The lamp flared, lighting his inimical, troglodyte’s face.
On the floor, Crackbene turned over and mumbled. Lutkyn snored. The bandaged Danziger opened one eye and then closed it. ‘Tell us,’ he said.
Yuri was clearing the chess from the box. The pieces clicked into their bag, or on the floor, or slid from the folds of his clothing. ‘Tell us,’ Nicholas echoed. He made no effort to help.
‘The Unicorn has gone,’ said the doctor.
‘You missed one,’ said the Danziger. Stretching his unbandaged arm, he picked up a crudely hewn queen.
‘You missed them all,’ said Father Moriz.
‘They’ve sunk?’ Nicholas said. His beard gilded the rims of two dimples.
The German priest leaned over the table and slapped his face hard with one palm. With the other he swept the cups, the bag, the table, the pieces to the floor. Then he sat down beside Nicholas, who was staring at him in a slow, aggrieved way.
‘The Unicorn has gone,’ repeated