Pawn in Frankincense

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘I want to reach M. le Comte before he arrives at Constantinople,’ said Jerott. Gabriel and Francis, he had been thinking all evening. Gabriel was alive, and Francis did not know. Francis travelling; believing he was safe at least from that quarter. Francis arriving in Constantinople, and Gabriel’s men there, awaiting him.

  The attaché was shaking his head. ‘If M. le Comte left Malta when you did, M. Blyth, he will be in Constantinople by now. Or long before you might reach him. It is October soon, M. Blyth, when the winds are strong and the galleys are laid up, and even trading vessels spend weeks in harbour. You would never reach him in time.… But to go to Chios, this would take you part of the way, and maybe discover the child for you en route?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jerott. ‘Could I get a ship at Scanderoon for Chios now? Or how long would I wait?’

  The attaché looked doubtful. ‘There is none there today, and it is now late in the season. You would do better, Mr Blyth, to go overland. You might join a caravan; or M. Gilles would be happy, I am sure, to go with you, with a suitable escort of Janissaries: the way is very familiar to him.…’

  Jerott wasn’t listening. He interrupted. ‘You said that there was no ship in Scanderoon today bound for Chios.… May I ask how you can possibly know?’

  The attaché smiled. ‘You do not know of our magic channels for news? I know by pigeon post, M. Blyth. Between all the main trading-centres along the coast, and between Scanderoon and here, they fly daily with the message tied by a thread to the leg. They take four hours to travel the eighty miles which probably took you three or four days, and we have all the news of shipping as it arrives, and they likewise learn in Scanderoon when the big caravans from Persia come in. It is a charming method. They have names, even, the little ones,’ said the attaché fondly.

  Marthe, standing among the Baghdad pigeons in the factor’s courtyard at Scanderoon … Gaultier, fondling Kiaya Khátún’s doves in the palace at Djerba …

  Jerott stood up.

  The attaché got quickly to his feet. ‘You wish me to arrange this then? To travel by land to Chios, yourself, Mademoiselle, M. Gilles and M. Pichón? There will be many good men to escort you: the Sultan’s army is already travelling south to Aleppo and many are riding to join them. You will have a swift passage to Chios, and thence to Constantinople to meet M. le Comte.…’

  ‘Yes. Arrange it,’ said Jerott. He had enough instinctive courtesy left to thank the foul little man as he ought before he got out, and strode to the suite used by Marthe, and hammered on the door with the butt of his knife till it cracked.

  She was singing. He had never heard any expression of happiness from her before, much less this joyous uplifting of voice, light and free. He drowned it with his hammering, and when he stopped, it had halted, too.

  The servant opened the door. Jerott looked past her and saw Marthe standing looking at him, dressed for supper, with a string of beryls in her pleated hair, and one of her few fine dresses with funnelled bodice and wide taffeta farthingale in a blue which echoed her eyes.

  He wondered, his heart sick, what had happened to the over-dress he had torn, in the crazed half-dark of the tekke, where they had filled his cup over and over, because otherwise she could not shake him free. ‘I love you,’ she had said, before she had led him from the room. And then, dull contempt in her voice, Take your sops, Mr Blyth, and go back to the schoolroom.… ‘Send the woman away,’ said Jerott.

  The servant looked round. ‘No,’ said Marthe. She was not singing now. ‘I prefer her to stay.’

  ‘Get out,’ said Jerott quite pleasantly to the negress, and with a quick flash of her eyes, she drew her dress together and, ducking under his arm, scuttled out of the door. Jerott walked in, and slamming the door shut, locked it. Finding he still had his knife in his hand, he put that away and looked up. ‘I take it,’ he said evenly, ‘that you are working for Gabriel?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Marthe. She was a little pale, but otherwise quite composed. ‘You have found that Mr Crawford’s little assassination was ineffective after all.’ She sat down, where she was, on a low stool, folded her hands and, looking at him, fetched a sigh. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I am not working for Gabriel. I have told you. I am nobody’s servant. You may believe it or not, as you wish.’

  Jerott, still standing, did not stir. ‘But you will agree that you knew before we left Mehedia that the Peppercorn was an English ship, and therefore would never be found at Aleppo?’

  ‘Yes. I knew that,’ said Marthe. ‘I am sorry. But there was no question of killing Gabriel first at that time; and as it happens, he is still alive; so the child has been in no danger. No harm has been done.’

  ‘No harm …!’ said Jerott; and then, controlling his voice, went on. ‘But it would have made no difference if Gabriel had been killed, would it? After all, you must have believed for quite some time, as we did, that he was dead. But you and your uncle had business at Aleppo, and you made sure you would get there, whatever happened … whatever misery anyone else … whatever prolonged misery a child of two might still have to suffer.’

  ‘Every element in life has its due importance,’ said Marthe. ‘Some greater, some less. As it happens, no time has been lost. I can tell you precisely where the child is. You will find him at the House of the Nightingales in Constantinople.’

  Jerott laughed. ‘There is a widespread and sudden compulsion to set out for Constantinople: are the clouds raining Lancashire egg-pies and peacocks?’ he said. ‘Pierre Gilles begs me to accompany him; the Attaché cannot wait to get me on my way, at least as far as Chios. I wonder who is waiting at Constantinople, apart from the other victims of this farcical pilgrimage?’

  ‘I cannot help it,’ said Marthe. ‘The child is there. I received the information here in Aleppo, and I know it is true.’

  ‘Not at Chios?’ said Jerott. ‘Be careful. The Peppercorn calls at Chios, you know: not at the Sublime Porte.’

  ‘I know. He and the Syrian woman landed at Chios and then … Look,’ said Marthe. ‘There is presumably no reason why you should believe me, but equally there is no reason why you shouldn’t at least go to Chios and inquire for yourself. Any number of independent witnesses, I am sure, will have seen them both.’

  ‘What do you have to do with the Saracens of Savah?’ said Jerott abruptly; and Marthe looked up, her eyes wide.

  ‘I wakened … once,’ he said. ‘Were you buying, or selling? Who pays you, Marthe?’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. In her lap, the loose hands had ground together: between the fair brows a single line showed, of anger and disgust and a kind of futile perplexity. ‘You don’t understand: how can you? You were born into a household, with parents and wealth; you knew your friends and your enemies; you knew your position in life; whom you were fighting for: whom you were against. I am alone. Every man is my enemy.’

  Jerott stared at her. She said, loosing her hands and standing up, ‘You wish to travel on your own to Chios and then to the Sublime Porte. It is of no importance. I shall make my own dispositions.’

  ‘No,’ said Jerott. ‘On the contrary. I want you where I can see you. I want you with me every step of the way. I want you where I can see you when you meet Francis Crawford.’

  ‘He knows,’ said Marthe. And then, as Jerott took a quick breath, ‘He knows at least that the child is not at Aleppo,’ she added. ‘He has known since Djerba, I think.’

  ‘Then why …?’

  ‘Why let us come? Why send us, in fact? Don’t you know, Mr Blyth? Oh, he made sure that the hunt for this child wouldn’t stop: he has sent Archie, I am sure, to scour every Venetian port in the whole Middle Seas in an effort to find where the Peppercorn landed … why do you think that Archie failed to come here? This was the one place he was told to leave strictly alone.’

  Why let us come? Jerott’s mind, trying to read that other, more subtle mind, thought of many things: of the strange woman Kiaya Khátún; of the agony of that dark night at Djerba, when Lymo
nd and Marthe had spoken over his head; of Lymond’s unaccustomed voice, saying on the edge of that tragic garden in Algiers, I can’t do without you. And Marthe’s, saying, Yes, I shall take your disciple Jerott, manco passioni humane, and he shall be returned to you weaned.

  ‘God damn you both,’ Jerott said through his teeth, and, flinging away from her, stood, breathing hard, at the one unshuttered window, unseeing, his hands fists on the sill. ‘You summon and you throw away. You treat love like a bird for the table … Like a pawn, now in frankincense, now discarded and thrown in the dirt. You don’t know what love is, either of you. And God help us and you, if you ever find out.’

  Sitting very still in her chair, Marthe had not moved. ‘You speak of me,’ she said. ‘I am happy to exercise your imagination. Who is the other?’

  ‘You know who I mean,’ said Jerott. ‘Only one other person can hurt as you do. And that is Francis Crawford of Lymond.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Marthe. ‘He is my brother.’

  17

  Thessalonika

  In one thing, the French Consular Attaché at Aleppo was right. His Most Christian Majesty of France’s good galley Dauphiné, sailed hard and effectively, entered the harbour of Thessalonika under perfect control and dropped anchor, after an eventful voyage, before the month of August was out. And before even Onophrion, soft-footed and deft, had spread his dishes for dinner, His Most Christian Majesty’s Special Envoy, whose acid tongue the ship’s complement, from master to slave, respected and feared, had written and sealed a note for the Beglierbey of all Greece, requesting an audience.

  It was taken ashore while Lymond and Gaultier sat down to their meal.

  Until now, for reasons of his own, Georges Gaultier had had little to do with the Comte de Sevigny under any of his various titles. Twice before, against his will, he had played a part in Mr Francis Crawford’s affairs, at the behest of the old woman whose word was his will. A third time, he had done so when he had compelled Marthe to come on this voyage with him. But that was the end. In his own line of business, Georges Gaultier liked to control all the odds. The Dame de Doubtance was in Lyons, not here. What he did here was nobody’s concern but his own.

  He had not enjoyed the journey. For one thing, the speed had been excessive: in wind, the galley had been made to carry sail after sail until her masts groaned with the strain: in calm, the slaves had rowed in shifts, à outrance, until both he and the master had forecast a revolt.

  It had not come, he realized, because Lymond’s judgement of what men could or could not bear was seldom at fault. At intervals also, they had stopped to put ashore or pick up Salablanca or Onophrion or one of the officers to make inquiries. They knew the route the Children of Devshirmé had followed, but the route Philippa had taken with her group of young men was different. Here and there, on the coast, they had picked up traces of her and once, outside Volos, Onophrion had returned with the skiff full of villagers, their arms full of bread and baskets of honey and fruit, whom Lymond had asked on board.

  They had brought lute and viols with them and danced on the poop till the sun sank in the sea, and Onophrion set a feast for them under a still, starry sky, with candles burning overhead in the sheets. There had been a little girl, a bride of no more than thirteen, with great silver shoe-buckles hung in her ears, who had caught Lymond’s attention, Gaultier saw; and the royal Envoy crossed over to admire them and speak to her.

  He had not been the only man watching Lymond. As the girl smiled and Lymond got up to leave her, a slender figure walked out of the shadows: a young man with long, wet hair and a remarkable face, slanting-browed and hollow-cheeked with the narrow jaw and wide, sensual mouth of the Slav. He wore a loose purple tunic, streaming with sea-water, and no adornment but his grace: Georges Gaultier, who loved beautiful things, watched him enchanted. Now, face to face with Francis Crawford, he had chosen a moment when the other man was not surrounded: was in fact out of earshot of everyone but Georges Gaultier, still sitting forgotten near by. They confronted each other in the moonlight, the fair-haired and the dark; and the young man drew a long breath and smiled, his white teeth gleaming, his long lashes veiling his eyes. O áshiq Pasha … they had not told me thou wert …’

  ‘… eligible? I am not,’ said Lymond without heat. ‘You are Míkál?’

  The teeth flashed. ‘Thou hast heard of me? And yet I am without the bells.’

  ‘There are other forms of identification,’ said Lymond. ‘Where is Philippa Somerville?’

  ‘I come to tell thee,’ said the boy Míkál in his musical voice. ‘We sit, yes? Philippa Khátún spoke much of thee. And the child of thine she must find. She says the mother is dead, and thou hast no lady now.’

  ‘A reasonably accurate assessment of my plight,’ said Lymond agreeably.

  ‘Then thou hast need of a friend. I am thy friend,’ said Míkál. He looked through his lashes and must have seen, as Gaultier saw, the quickly suppressed flash of laughter in Lymond’s eyes, for he suddenly laughed himself, in his clear voice, and added, ‘Within limits?’

  ‘Within limits,’ Lymond agreed; and, moving for the first time, dropped lightly to sit on the other side of the hatch-cover against which Míkál was reclining. ‘And especially if you will tell me where Philippa Khátún is.’

  ‘I cannot tell thee where she is, but I know where she goes. She found the little child, which was taken from Marino Donati’s house in Zakynthos—thou knowest Marino Donati is dead?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lymond.

  ‘Good riddance,’ said Míkál cheerfully; and blew an extravagant kiss. ‘And the sister too: dead at Thessalonika just after Philippa Khátún had met her. So they gave Philippa Khátún the care of the child.’

  From his light-gilded hair to the rings on his clasped hands, Lymond had become very still. ‘Donati’s sister? Do you by any chance mean Evangelista Donati?’

  ‘It is right,’ said Míkál. ‘She was taking the child, so they said, to Stamboul with the Children. Now Philippa Khátúm will take it instead.’

  ‘But … did she not try to buy it?’ asked Lymond. ‘Did she not ask your help?’

  Míkál shrugged his elegant shoulders. ‘They would not sell. And as for helping her—this a man of war might have done. Thyself, hadst thou been here. But we, Crawford Efendi, are Children of Love. We do not hurt or take life. I am asked to see that she is safe, and she is safe. She will come to no harm.’

  ‘I am not yet quite clear about this,’ said Lymond; and Gaultier, listening, recognized without difficulty the tone of his voice. ‘Philippa Khátúm failed to purchase the child, and was unable, without your help, to take it away. She therefore stayed with it and, no doubt, the rest of the Children when they left Thessalonika? Then where is she now?’

  ‘At Stamboul, perhaps,’ said Míkál. ‘Or Constantinople, as many still call it.… It does not take long. Perhaps three weeks, if they make many stops. Or they may have sent her ahead with the child. Yes, in Stamboul assuredly, I should think.’

  ‘I see. Then, if they refused to sell the child, it presumably is now in the Seraglio. And Philippa Khátúm, I should hope, is in the French Ambassador’s house, awaiting me. Do you think this is so?’

  ‘No,’ said Míkál. ‘How could she protect the child from an Ambassador’s house? There are assassins, she says, who will kill the child when the man for whom he is hostage dies by thy hand.… Is that true?’

  ‘It is true,’ said Lymond. ‘And he is dead.’

  ‘So. How could she take him to Stamboul and still not protect him? Not so. It is arranged instead that she will go with him, where no assassin or any harm can touch either. Is it not well done?’

  ‘I’ll tell you that in a moment,’ said Lymond. ‘Where is she going?’

  ‘To the Sultan’s Seraglio,’ said Míkál simply.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Lymond said.

  There was a long silence. ‘Thou art distressed, Efendi?’ asked Míkál at length, soothingly. ‘She will live l
ike a queen. In her own country she has no husband, no riches, no palace?’

  ‘You are perfectly correct,’ said Lymond. ‘It would also be hard to find three possessions she would find more ridiculous. Was this by any chance the woman Donati’s idea?’

  ‘I think it likely,’ said Míkál peacefully; and Gaultier, glimpsing Lymond’s face in the moonlight, swore under his breath. Tomorrow, more ruthless sailing; more of this total indifference towards the rights and requirements of his fellow-passengers. Salablanca was a nigger and used to it; Onophrion was a servile old woman by nature. Gaultier was finding it more and more hard to put up with it. He got up and already was moving away as Onophrion came forward to tell Lymond that their guests were now disembarking.

  Míkál stayed where he was; but Lymond rose to give the villagers his last greetings and watch them climb down into the two boats: their own, and the Dauphiné’s caique, with Onophrion officiously in the bows, which was to take back those who had swum, like Míkál, to the galley.

  Gaultier noticed that Míkál was still not among them. He saw the two boats cast off, with Onophrion’s high-pitched voice floating over the water, and turned back, enjoying the quiet now that the flutes and lyres and tambourines had stopped, and there were only the quiet sounds of the ship settling down for the night. After a while, he made his way to the ladder which led down to his room and was about to descend when he saw Lymond, who had been speaking to the patron, walk back to the hatch where he had been sitting with Míkál. Gaultier paused. He heard Lymond say, in his clear speaking-voice, ‘I am sailing to Thessalonika, to obtain a licence from the Viceroy to buy back Philippa Khátún and the child, if I can. If they are not yet in Constantinople, it might work. If they are already in the Sublime Porte, then I shall make submissions to Suleiman.’