The Unicorn Hunt

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Nicholas said, ‘And have you a Scots title as well?’ It wasn’t especially cutting.

  ‘Are they infectious?’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’re right. I feel a unicorn growing in, now you mention it.’ She had put her feet into shoes and replaited her hair and changed, as everyone did, into something clean for the Consul’s table at supper. They never went on the street after sundown: the Mamelukes locked the front gates.

  Nicholas said, ‘I thought you were ill. What was wrong?’

  ‘Too much energy,’ said Tobie, surprised into sounding protective. ‘She used it up. She doesn’t want to use it up again.’ Nicholas was wandering round the low-ceilinged room, looking out to the gardens on one side; looking down on the other through the ruddy sun-dazzle at the courtyard with its vaulted storehouses and shops, its handsome tiers of lodgings completing the square.

  From the next room you could see the back gardens, but not the wall at the bottom which divided them from the road and the sea. Nicholas looked, and then came back to study the courtyard. Tobie could see Kathi itching to get up and join him.

  Nicholas said, ‘There’s an ostrich tied to a tree.’

  Tobie said, ‘No!’

  ‘Well, yes. It’s been there all year,’ said John le Grant, coming in. ‘There’s another outside.’

  ‘I meant,’ elucidated Tobie, ‘no, you are not going to race them.’ He gazed warningly at Nicholas. ‘I found her practising.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have told her the story. So what have you been doing all these weeks?’ He sat down.

  John said, ‘Nicholas. I’ve got Achille below.’

  Below was the counting-house. Achille was the under-agent who had been managing their affairs. Nicholas said, ‘Achille can sulk in his tent for an hour: I want some wine and some gossip. We are allowed wine?’

  ‘At an exorbitant tax rate,’ John said. ‘You don’t drink it.’

  Nicholas looked taken aback. Tobie studied him with some interest. Nicholas said, ‘How good of you to remind me. I do want to know one thing right away, while you’re fetching it. Will you find out where the Vatachino are lodging?’

  ‘I can tell you,’ said Kathi. ‘David de Salmeton’s in Cairo. But before he left he took rooms in the Catalan fondaco next door. There are two sub-agents still there.’

  ‘Next door?’ Nicholas said. ‘Which way?’ John, his hand on the door, had turned back.

  ‘That way. You can see it from the other side of the room. Past the garden wall and over the lane. The second-floor loggia.’

  Nicholas got up and looked. He said, ‘How do you know?’

  Kathi shot across the room and returned with a bag which she presented, open, before him. It was full of bright fabrics and papers of needles and thread. ‘I went to the silk-sheds with the Catalonian Consul’s wife,’ she said, closing it and sitting down. ‘Damask and samite. Fairly good but not uniform. And then she came over here, because our baths are better than hers and she has a complaint. Dr Tobias told her what powders to use, and I went with her to the drugs market – Dr Tobias is teaching me how to mix drugs – and in return she took me to St Nicholas – that’s the Florentine church – instead of St Marie’s – that’s the Genoese – and I met the mistress of the Consul for Pisa who likes botanical drawings – have you seen the plants they have in the gardens? – and wanted to talk about David de Salmeton. In fact, she showed me a curl of his hair.’

  ‘Lovelocks!’ said John le Grant. John le Grant had cast an Aberdonian eye on the handsome David in Cyprus.

  ‘Well …’ said Kathi, looking at Nicholas. Her eyes were glinting in a way Tobie knew all too well.

  Nicholas said, ‘I’m speechless. I think I’d feel safer with Achille. You have shocked Dr Tobias.’

  ‘I just wanted you to know,’ she said, ‘that I have independent sources of information and don’t mind sharing them. Otherwise you’d suspect an Adorne conspiracy. That is, I’m going to watch you and my uncle competing, and that’s comical enough without taking sides. When are you going to the Emir?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Nicholas said. A servant pushed open the door, bearing a tray, and, passing through the room, went to place it on the shaded verandah. John le Grant was behind him.

  ‘I haven’t met him,’ said Kathi. She waited until the servant had gone. ‘Are you going to give him the falcon?’

  ‘The falcon,’ Nicholas repeated. He had been on his way to the balcony. He turned, his hand on the door. Tobie sat, leaning back, watching them both until he saw John watching him with astonishment. He wiped the smile off his face.

  Kathi said, ‘Yes. Or was that for the Sultan, and the essence of violet for the Emir? Anyway, they’ll be pleased about the copper bars and the Rheims linen – I thought you weren’t supposed to bring copper? – although I don’t know if you’ll get fifty florins a bale for that amount of wool cloth. But you might.’

  She stopped, her round face ineffably smug. Nicholas shut the door and came back into the room. ‘You know my cargo,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘I thought I’d better warn you. Everyone usually does. Achille probably didn’t bother to tell you, because grain is so short. You know we don’t have any bread? It’s the time of year. And there’s a lot of camel-meat, but not much of any other, unless you’ve brought some with you?’

  Nicholas sat down very carefully. ‘You mean I have some secrets left?’ Then he added, ‘Grain?’

  She waited, smiling. Very slowly, Nicholas closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the wall. ‘Pigeons,’ he said. He opened his eyes again and gazed at Tobie. ‘You rat, you’re allowing all this to happen.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tobie. He felt warm. ‘I’ve had it since February.’

  Nicholas shifted his gaze to the girl. He said, ‘Let me get this quite straight. My ship approaches the harbour. It is boarded by the Emir’s officials, and news of its owner and cargo is sent to the Emir by pigeon. You intercept the pigeon?’

  ‘And send it on afterwards,’ said Kathi virtuously. ‘You can tell which they are by the mark.’

  ‘Katelijne, you’ll have your hair made into bowstrings,’ said Nicholas, ‘and John and Achille and I will be expelled from the bellies of bombards. You know you must stop it at once?’

  ‘I have,’ she said. She looked unperturbed.

  Nicholas said, ‘What about the ship that came in after ours. Tobie!’

  Tobie looked blank. The girl said, ‘No, I’ve stopped. I didn’t do that one.’

  Tobie said languidly, ‘You mean you didn’t bother to go up and read off the note. The pigeon’s probably still on the roof. The Emir’s probably combing the city for it.’

  ‘How do you get to the roof?’ Nicholas said. And during the ensuing scramble, ‘Tobie! I thought that girl was supposed to be ill? What are you here for?’

  ‘To stop her doing things like this,’ Tobie said. ‘Now you can take over.’

  There were banks of plants on the roof, and some melons, and trees in tubs, their blossom scenting the eternal Alexandria breeze as it tempered the heat. The sun, sinking over the blood-coloured sea, sent long shadows over the flat surface and, below, the courtyards were also filling with dusk, with only the tops of the palms showing bronze. The murmur of voices rose up, with some laughter, and a clatter of dishes. With the working day done, the men and women and children who lived in the fondaco were emerging into the balmy air and mellow light to take their ease; strolling in the gardens, entertaining guests from other fondaci, greeting the newly arrived officers of the Claretti and waiting, no doubt, to be introduced to the banker who owned her.

  From here, you could see the harbour quite clearly, and the galley’s tall masts, some half a mile out, The port was crowded with flotillas, although not with Venetian galleys, impressed this year for war. There were only two of these, but four from Genoa, and a swaying raft of fishing vessels and pinnaces. All of them were Christian vessels, and so confined to the easterly, dangerous harbour, closely under the
eye of the cannon and easy to guard and restrain. The sails and rudder of every ship in the harbour had been impounded from the moment it arrived.

  Kathi’s voice said, ‘Oh, no!’ Tobie turned.

  He knew, of course, what she had been doing. He knew the discreet corner where she laid out her lure: the fragments of biscuit and powder and fruit that she thought might tempt the appetite of a passing pigeon. She waited until she heard the trumpets, as a rule, and then came up here, shaking her tin in the way the Emir’s pigeon-keepers shook theirs.

  She stood in the same corner now, but instead of reaching her palm to the birds she was kneeling in the midst of the mess, gathering something into her hands. Tobie said, ‘A patient? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s dead,’ she said.

  ‘An ordinary pigeon?’

  ‘No,’ Nicholas said. He had been kneeling beside her. ‘Give it me. No. One of the Emir’s. There is the mark, and here is the message.’

  Tobie said, ‘What do we do? What has killed it?’ It was stiff, its wings a trifle open, its eyes shut. Nicholas was turning it over, examining it.

  Nicholas said, ‘It’s still warm. There’s nothing broken or cut. There’s not a feather displaced.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Kathi. ‘Then it was sick. It could have died anywhere.’

  ‘All the same,’ Nicholas said, ‘you don’t want it found here. The street, perhaps?’

  ‘The cats would get it,’ said Kathi.

  ‘Well, let them. They’ll get a good price for the message.’

  ‘Or we could cook and eat it,’ said Tobie, his appetite suddenly roused. ‘Camel’s meat palls, I can tell you.’

  ‘You can cook and eat it,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’d want to know what it died of. Katelijne, what did you feed it with?’

  ‘It wasn’t that,’ she said.

  ‘I know it wasn’t, but what?’

  ‘I saved some grain,’ she said. ‘Just a little. I did want to be sure.’

  ‘Yes. Well, you did capture my bird, which is what you were after. So this one got more of the same? Just grain?’

  ‘I can tell you,’ said Tobie. He knew what she had been pounding. He reeled it off.

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘More or less. I did eke it out,’ Kathi said. ‘Maybe it’s your fault. Would candied fruit kill them?’

  Nicholas stood very still. Against the flaming sea and the sky he looked like a menhir. He said, his voice gentle, ‘My candied fruit?’

  Kathi looked at him. By contrast, the low sun made her look ruddy. She said, ‘It was wrong of me. I saw the box: your servant was throwing it out. I asked for some of the pieces.’

  ‘No. It wasn’t wrong. Why was he throwing it out?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘I thought you had told him. He said it was because it had been opened and ants had got into the spaces.’

  ‘It had been opened and some of the sweetmeats were missing?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘You didn’t know,’ said the girl.

  ‘No. Katelijne, will you go downstairs and get Tobie to wash your hands for you, very carefully? I’ll clear up here. Then when I come down, I want you to show me which boy gave you the box. Don’t be worried: I shan’t be angry with him. I only want to find out when it was opened.’

  Tobie said, ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nicholas. But there was nothing left, now, of the aura of contentment, of relief, which had come with him to the fondaco.

  ‘The boy died,’ Tobie said.

  ‘The box was untouched when we sailed. It was broached before we reached Alexandria. The cabin-boy had access to it, and died.’

  Kathi was not present. The public part of the evening was over. Freshly dressed, they had presented themselves below, the guests of the Consul, the newest arrivals at the fondaco. What delicacies the galley could provide had been presented; the news from home had been told, the evening had ended in laughter and music. Katelijne had retired. And now Nicholas had to satisfy both John and Tobie.

  John said, ‘He died of sickness. You still can’t be sure.’

  The page had been interviewed. Frightened to tears, he had been patently innocent. The box had been opened at sea – he had seen it in the padrone’s chest in his cabin, and some of the sweets had been missing. Now, told to be careful, he had found and brought to the table the battered carton and some of its contents.

  It lay before the three of them now. Nicholas said, ‘Tobie? I suppose you are here for some purpose. Can you test it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tobie. ‘So can you. Eat it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Nicholas said. ‘Is there no other way?’

  ‘No,’ said Tobie. ‘Or yes. Feed it to someone or something.’

  ‘Nicholas?’ said John le Grant.

  ‘Good night,’ Nicholas said.

  Alone, he laid the sweetmeats before him. Alone, as John’s voice had suggested, he took the little string in his hand and held it steadily poised, his thoughts on the trifles before him. The candied fruits given by Fiorenza, mother of Catherine, Queen of Cyprus. Fiorenza, wife of Marco Corner, sugar-grower in Cyprus, farmer of silver mines on the frontier between the Tyrol and Venice. He asked, as he had learned to ask, ‘Will this food do me harm?’

  And the jewel, stirring, swayed, began to circle, began to race, began to hurtle in a circle so wide, so fierce, so frightening that it tore the skin from his finger.

  He rose, with difficulty. Recalling the way, he climbed the steps to the roof and stood, far from the swept grain, the interred pigeon. The wind blew from the north, and the sky was powdered with poisonous stars.

  Next day, Nicholas de Fleury, knight, presented himself at the gate of the Emir’s palace, and was admitted to his audience. Because he was a merchant, he and his retinue were escorted between a double file of Mameluke horsemen, impassive in their long robes and scarlet furred headgear, the golden orbs of their maces matched this time with the full armoury of sword, bow and quiver. The horse-cloths were of damascened satin. Drummers in silk coats preceded them.

  He was not permitted a horse, but the mule he was given was exceptionally fine, and he used his own silver harness lined with red velvet and studded with immodest jewels. He wore, too, a merchant’s robe of full-length brocade, not this time in black, but of cloth of silver and crimson, and his cap, although plain in shape as a pillbox, was adorned after the fashion of the Emir’s own wives with pearls and Indian rubies, cunningly set. Across his shoulders he wore the chain of his Order, with the unicorn gleaming white in the Alexandria sun.

  Pilgrims were harshly treated in Alexandria. Pilgrims paid tax after tax, impost after impost; were kept incarcerated on arrival; were forbidden to leave without permits; were harried, made to walk everywhere, charged impossible prices for the simplest of services; even forced to adopt heathen robes, for otherwise the unruly, the uneducated among Alexandria’s natives would stone them. They stoned them, none the less.

  But merchants – even though Christians, even though blameworthy, too, for the terrible massacre perpetrated by Peter of Lusignan and his crew – merchants were the lifeblood of Egypt, and treated honourably. The Emir, instructed from Cairo, welcomed Western merchants to Alexandria, taxed them circumspectly, and allowed them wine and such other luxuries of the flesh as they might require. And if it so happened, one day, that the actions of Venice or Genoa or Catalonia did not agree with the Sultan’s expectations, he could always hold their merchants as hostage.

  The fountain in front of the palace was working, although blown in the wind like the tattered palms that stood on either side. It still pleased Nicholas how green Alexandria was. He had stepped ashore expecting sand. He walked forward, composed rather than braced.

  The steps of the palace were of marble and the floors inside made of mosaic. The pillars and wall-linings were marble as well. It reminded one of Trebizond, if anything. There was no stucco, no honeycomb arches anywhere. The hall of audience was well kept also, and the
Emir in his white five-horned turban seemed affable. Nicholas began the long walk to the dais. John le Grant followed him. Nicholas had been offered, and had refused an interpreter.

  It was still a shock, a little, to see so many robed figures about him, and to accept that none of the faces was black. Nicholas approached, said what he should, and delivered his letters of credence and his gift, which was not essence of violet but a cloth-of-gold robe twice as costly as the one he was wearing. This man was not the Sultan but he was important: an Emir of many thousands of lances; the military governor of the second city of Egypt, which provided a great deal of the Sultanate’s wealth. The men around him were Mamelukes, officers of the administration and the army; and civilians who were Muslim merchant princes themselves, inhabitants of the great marble mansions that still stood, here and there.

  They were here to assess him. The meeting was purely formal: the talks he had asked for would begin in private, and later. He did not have to think very much, kneeling, bowing, taking his seat for the prescribed glass of sherbet. He knew the etiquette. He knew even what they were thinking. He had lived and thought as they did for a long time. And he wished them to know it. It was why, from the beginning, he had used his Arabic.

  He knew already, as he sat, that their curiosity had been roused, and that they would, by now, know something about him. He answered what questions they put; mentioned names; quoted once, briefly, from Abu al-Faraj. John, silent beside him, would follow some of it, and would know he was speaking of Timbuktu. He didn’t know what John made of that, and didn’t much care. He praised Alexandria, and said it would please him to pass his life there.

  The Emir liked that. Further meetings were touched upon. Nicholas and John rose, retreated and left. A box of quails followed them, and a wicker basket full of grapes and melons and passion-fruit, and a small barrel of figs, carried by Mameluke servants.

  At the gates of the fondaco, the Mamelukes saluted and left, the captain with something pressed into his hand. John looked at the baskets. ‘Katelijne will be pleased. She can take some of it with her.’