The Unicorn Hunt

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘Ibn Said. A trader who came on Adorne’s ship. He told me about Loppe as well. So I knew what to expect.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Tobie. ‘Will you tell me?’

  At the end, he walked out to the terrace. He said, ‘I can’t advise. He’ll have to make this choice himself.’

  John waited. Then he said, ‘You’ll have to stay with the girl?’

  ‘Until her uncle comes. After that, I don’t know.’

  ‘She looks well,’ John said.

  Nicholas, bowing himself out of the quarrel, followed the girl solemnly into the pavilion and then, catching her eye, recapitulated the previous two minutes in mime. She had embarked on a spasm of laughter when she caught sight of Tobie and tried to look apologetic. There was someone with Tobie.

  Nicholas said, ‘John?’

  To Nicholas de Fleury, it was like a continuation of the mime. He spoke: Kathi vanished; Tobie changed expression and John le Grant said, unprompted, ‘I know about everything: ibn Said told me.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nicholas. He looked about.

  John said, ‘I’m not staying. But you’ll have to move. Adorne will come soon.’

  ‘Ha! Gand! Mauvais Gand!’ said Nicholas automatically. His chin itched, and he scratched it.

  John said, ‘The house in Cairo is there. You can use it if you want to be quiet. The agency’s finished anyway. That clever bastard David de Salmeton got in before me. He guessed Negroponte would fall, and persuaded the Sultan to pin his faith on the Vatachino and the Pope and the Genoese. If I could find him I’d kill him.’

  He looked as if he meant it. He had tinted his skin. Nicholas wondered where he got the dyes. It was quite a feat for a red-headed man to pass himself off as an Arab. Cairo would be hot. There was nothing he wanted in Cairo. Nicholas said, a little plaintively, ‘I was going to swim.’ He looked at Tobie.

  There was a silence. John said, ‘Adorne will be here. It wouldn’t be fair to Katelijne.’ After a moment he said, ‘I have things to do. Think about it. I’ll have to leave in an hour.’

  He walked out of the room, and Tobie followed him. Kathi had disappeared. Nicholas felt as if he had been given extreme unction and left to commune with his soul. Inspecting the contents rather of his mind, he was forced to the opinion that he couldn’t stay at Matariya. The Baron Cortachy, no doubt hourly approaching, would arrive in understandable fury and would immediately denounce Nicholas, in turn, as no dragoman. So he had to move on.

  When they all reappeared, as they did, he had already assembled the few possessions he had and was ready to leave for Cairo with John. John’s response, learning this, was a deeply Aberdonian grunt. Tobie cleared his throat, then said nothing. Kathi regarded him. ‘How? Why?’

  Nicholas said, ‘Skipping like a dove or a passing cloudlet. Why? Self-preservation. I told the Emir of Alexandria that your uncle was a rich pilgrim masquerading as a burjasi. A merchant.’

  ‘You did?’ she said.

  ‘And that, despite the Genoese credentials, the lord Anselm Adorne was really the sire de Cortachy, knight and baron of Scotland, that perfidious country whose soldiers helped to destroy Alexandria.’

  She said, ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Not to Alexandria. I also mentioned how the Genoese fondaco had penetrated the customs house next to it and retrieved half their taxable merchandise. They’ll get into terrible trouble. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Nothing personal. I imagine your uncle and his party will be here fairly soon. Tobie had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tobie with anger.

  ‘And I thank you for your ointments, charms, and miraculous potions. What will you do?’

  ‘Wait for her uncle. Blame you,’ Tobie said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nicholas. ‘And Kathi?’

  ‘Wait for my uncle. Blame him and you,’ she said. Below the judicial lip, her chin had compressed like a biscuit.

  Nicholas said, ‘What is it they say? Blessings are in the hands of the one who has power.’

  He did not expect them to recognise the quotation. It was John who said, ‘Power is God’s, Glory is God’s, Dominion is God’s. Who do you think you are? Are you coming?’

  Confounded, Nicholas looked at him, and then at the others. Tobie scowled. The girl looked downcast, but threw him a grimace. He smiled apologetically in return and, lifting his packages, obediently followed John out of the Garden.

  Cairo, Mother of the World – city of intrigue, city of turmoil, city of spies – was seldom deceived by the foreigners who slipped within her walls. Many vanished. Those who were allowed to remain were the unofficial diplomats, the tactful men of affairs whose presence promised some advantage to the Sultan and his advisers. The only fee such people had to pay was that of absolute discretion. Whatever disguise they might choose, the general run of Mamelukes and Cairenes must never penetrate it. And concomitant with that, the foreigners were aware that their every word, their every movement was watched.

  These were the terms on which John le Grant made his regular visits. Given patience, the system provided for certain approaches, certain meetings, certain opportunities for discussion at the highest of levels, and occasionally with the Sultan himself. When these did not occur, it was an immediate sign of dislocation, even of danger. He had warned Nicholas. They were out of favour. And he could do little about it until he found out more about David de Salmeton, who had ousted them.

  High on its spur of the Maqattam Hills, the Citadel of the Sultan looked down on the domes and minarets of the city, and on the broad Nile beyond with its islands moored like palm-masted ships. The report of the Informers came first to a house in the north of Cairo owned by the great Mameluke official, the Muhtasib, and went from there to the even greater Grand Emir, the Dawadar Yachbak, who asked that the matter be pursued.

  It was noted that the merchant’s agent who came regularly from Alexandria had recently visited the Garden of Balm, bringing back with him a friend who passed for an interpreter. It was reported that this was probably true, in that the man spoke native Arabic, sometimes with a Maghgribian accent, sometimes of the kind taught in the schools; sometimes with an inflection such as they had in Bursa and Constantinople. The man was not therefore a trader, as suspected, but was more likely an Ottoman spy. He was followed.

  This did not greatly concern the native Cairenes, long accustomed to a floating population from al-Maghgreb and al-Andalus, from Syria and the other Arab-speaking countries of the East. His name, Nicomack (father of Aristotalis), was common enough, and he used the patronymic ibn Abdallah, given to converts.

  In the course of a handful of days, he hardly became a familiar figure in a city with a population several times that of Paris, but he made acquaintances. Students in the Mida Alley pastry-shop found him amiable when he stepped in to watch the contortionist, and prepared, if amused, to barter his jam-filled fatir for their stipend of bread. The dice-players round this or that fountain welcomed him with his few dirhams and his stories, which were good enough for the Guild; and the dyers at Batiniyya were flattered by his interest, and pleased by his readiness to argue or to pay for a bowl of liquorice-root, or something savoury from a pedlar. When he found his way, as he did once or twice, to a house of pleasure, the flute-players appreciated his enthusiasm for their art, and the girls, who were often the discarded concubines of a man of importance, were heard to express the same sentiments.

  It was noticed that he did not respond to the invitations extended to him in the street when some Mameluke’s mistress, veiled and robed on her mule, would have her eunuch bend and speak to him as he sat arguing in the very path of the travelling shower from the water-camels. Thus he was cautious. On the other hand a Moorish merchant, hearing him versifying to music, invited him upstairs to his harem to recite a qit’ahs and sing, and he accepted. Later the merchant reported the women greatly moved although, of course, they remained behind the wrought screen. He had sung Berber songs, followed by others of some ref
inement.

  Sometimes, on such occasions, he seemed to enjoy wandering about those alleys whose gates were not closed after dark, or sometimes, like the rest, he had to make himself scarce when a group of Mamelukes, finding themselves idle after the evening prayers, left the barracks bent on mischief. Then it was not wise for any man’s wife or daughter to be found in the streets, and even boys were not safe. Whatever happened, it seemed that Nicomack ibn Abdallah had a patron or friend, for he always left in good time, and seemed sure of shelter.

  His patron and friend took a different view, and made it plain at the outset. ‘This isn’t Alexandria. I’m here on suffrance; you’re not supposed to be here at all.’

  ‘I know,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘They’ll spot you as a stranger.’

  ‘They have already,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘If I can’t track down David de Salmeton with money, how can you do it in bath-houses and bazaars?’

  ‘It’s a challenge,’ Nicholas said. ‘You seem to think he’s taken our place with the Sultan. Don’t you want to know how?’

  ‘Aye,’ said his agent. ‘But I don’t think you’re going to find out pitching about like a duck with its head off. I thought we were going to Sinai.’

  ‘Then why not go?’ Nicholas said. ‘Since Cairo seems so alarming.’ Then he drew breath and said, ‘Look. You’re a Venetian agent: the Sultan won’t touch you. He still needs Venice. Genoa and the Knights of St John can’t hold off the whole Ottoman Empire, and Adorne can hardly deliver a Papal Crusade. They can’t even prise two ships out of Tommaso.’

  John said, ‘Of course the Sultan won’t kill, but his Mamelukes could get out of hand. Mistakes happen. Or David de Salmeton would be happy to oblige, with or without the help of Adorne. You’ve got to be careful. Don’t you see that?’

  Later, he wondered how he could have been so naïve. At the time, there was a pause, then Nicholas laughed. He said, ‘I suppose I do. Or they could always blame Tzani-bey’s sister.’

  ‘Tzani-bey’s what?’ John le Grant said.

  ‘His sister. She hired a man to kill Zacco in Cyprus six years ago. Now she’s threatening me. Or so rumour is trying to make out.’

  ‘But you don’t believe it?’

  ‘After all this time? She wasn’t even responsible for –’ He broke off, his manner vague. ‘No, I don’t believe it. But it’s an excuse, I suppose, if they need one.’

  He sounded undisturbed, which was as maddening as it was cause for concern. John le Grant spent his time thinking up ways to control Nicholas.

  He met perhaps his greatest failure the following day, their eighth in Cairo together. He was himself tired and out of patience by the time he confronted Nicholas, who returned late as usual to their chamber, his high-buttoned galabiyya lightly scented with cinnamon and spiced food and hashish. He blinked in the lamplight, but not as if drugged.

  Le Grant said, ‘Adorne is in Cairo. He came yesterday.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nicholas. He unfastened and let fall the robe, and sank into the window-cushions. Instead of hose, he wore linen trousers, once white, and his shirt was wringing with sweat. He added, ‘With the whole group?’

  ‘Tobie and the girl are still at the Garden. But Adorne’s five are all here, straight from Alexandria in the foulest of tempers. Your Baron Cortachy has already been to see the Katib al Sirr, the Clerk of the Secrets.’

  ‘It seems a curious pilgrimage,’ Nicholas said.

  John said, ‘The Katib al Sirr issues permits for Jerusalem. That’s the excuse. But of course he is setting up something else. This, surely, is the partner the Vatachino have been waiting for. And Adorne must know you are here. The niece will have told him.’

  ‘If they stopped at Matariya. Aren’t you thirsty? I could empty a goatskin.’

  John rose and crossed to the table. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Pure alcohol, if you have it. No. I’m on qirfa. Or salep would do. Did you know that salep is made from fox testicles? Or perhaps it’s the plant that they brew it from. Vincite fortes. Have you heard Filelfo referred to as triorchos? Are you surprised?’

  ‘No,’ said John le Grant grimly. He gave him his drink. It was only cinnamon. Nicholas did not always stick to harmless decoctions, John knew. The irresponsibility of it all continued to irk him.

  Nicholas said, ‘What do you want to do about Adorne?’

  John took his own drink and sat down. The wind-scoop on the roof breathed down a little air, and the cooling-jars tempered the heat by the window. It was still very hot. He said, ‘They’re lodging with Carni Bey, one of the four official interpreters. That’s usual. But the Chief Dragoman visits them too. He knows Adorne’s family. He helped one of the Doges of Genoa – one of the Adorno Doges – over the export of alum from Chios.’

  He waited. The island of Chios, source of much of Genoa’s wealth, had been the world distribution centre for the precious rock-powder alum until the mainland mines fell to the Turk. Alum had always been one of the Bank’s special interests.

  ‘So?’ said Nicholas. He had closed his eyes. He had taken something, then.

  ‘So go to sleep,’ John said shortly. ‘I’ll deal with it. You wouldn’t like to go home, would you? It would make running this business a lot easier.’

  Too late, the word ‘home’ struck him as poignant. He felt remorse and resentment together. Resentment won. He said, ‘I thought you would have known all that already. What do you talk about, squatting under trees in the Meidan with dogs sniffing about?’

  A dimple made a shallow appearance, and went. ‘The availability of girls. Whether the Arab term madina jamaiyya is a correct interpretation of Plato’s politeia and if not, what is. The cheapest place to buy lupins.’ He opened both eyes and shifted his shoulders, without removing his weight from the lattice. He then closed his eyes again, but went on speaking. ‘All right. We do not, we really do not think that Anselm Adorne is solely a pilgrim. His sponsors may be Scotland and Burgundy, but he has serious investments in the Genoese colonies. So he is here to promote Genoa, now that Venice has lost Negroponte. To all his plans, I am his principal obstacle. And the river is rising. The spice ships will be coming next month.’

  ‘The emirs know I am here,’ John said.

  ‘Then you must assume that Adorne will be told, and hence David de Salmeton. If I haven’t been wholly energetic in hunting the Vatachino,’ Nicholas said, ‘it is because it seemed very likely that David de Salmeton would discover me first. Now he’ll find both of us. Perhaps we should both leave?’

  ‘Give up Cairo?’ said John. ‘Alexandria? The whole Levant project?’

  ‘Why not?’ Nicholas said. ‘There’s always Sinai. Let’s go and find gold in Sinai.’

  ‘You don’t mean it,’ said John. He was so vexed that it took a moment to perceive that Nicholas had closed his eyes once again and seemed to have fallen asleep.

  It meant, at least, that he wouldn’t disappear into the souks during the night. John spent an hour at his desk with his ledgers, had himself brought something to eat, confirmed that Nicholas was still asleep on the cushions and, turning out all the lamps, went to bed.

  Rising at six hours next morning, he found himself alone. The servants were obedient and helpful, as always. A man he knew had come with a message. His generous guest, the interpreter Nicomack ibn Abdallah, had received it and departed, leaving a note. They presented the note.

  Nicholas had written it in clear, but in Flemish. It summarised the news brought by John’s spy, detailing Anselm Adorne’s movements the previous day. Adorne, it seemed, had seen several emirs and a number of resident merchants and dealers, some of them Moorish, some of them Christian. He and his party had spent the afternoon barefoot visiting holy places – St Sergius, St Barbara – in the dress of Copts. He had laid plans to cross the river and climb Pharaoh’s granaries the following day. He had hired camels and sent to buy provisions for that, and for what seemed to be a much longer journey.

  He
had been seen in the house of the Patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church of Alexandria to whom, it was said, he had confided a great sum of money in return for the services of Lorenzo, a Cretan, a monk who was familiar with deserts, and would guide the Baron to his own monastery.

  There was no need, really, to read all the rest. John knew the name. Brother Lorenzo from Crete, whose help Adorne had won at such cost, was no ordinary monk. Brother Lorenzo from Crete was manager, treasurer and steward of the church and convent of St Catherine’s, Mount Sinai. Adorne, apprised by Tobie, by Kathi, by the devil, was aiming to reach the Sinai gold before they did.

  Nicholas did not even append an opinion. He merely wrote that he had departed, as he hoped John would wish, to visit the Baron Cortachy and discuss matters of mutual interest. It was obvious, in the interests of the business (he added), that John should not follow.

  It was obvious. It was obvious that only part of the futile vagaries of the last week had been due to inattention – to sheer incapacity, wrought, perhaps, by despair. The rest had been deliberate. Whatever was dangerous in Cairo, Nicholas had been willing to draw on himself. Pitching about like a duck with its head off, was the way he himself had described it. It had been partly that, too.

  Outside, the rising sun tinted the domes and the towers. John blew out the candle. The city, awake, was already busying itself: the water-camels by the thousand filtering their way tinkling through every alley; the echo of braying as the riding-beasts were forced to their stance; the distant calls: A hatchery of chicks is ready and will be emptied this day! And the faster hoof-beats of the Criers approaching under their banners. Rejoice, people of Misr! The river has risen seven marks during the night!

  Chapter 37

  THERE WAS A Seraph in the courtyard of the Second Dragoman’s house. Its meek, pimpled head drifted past second-floor casements attached to a long neck, a trunk and four legs. At first, the pilgrims had taken it for a toy on a cord.