Pawn in Frankincense

by Dorothy Dunnett

  They followed it through bright rolling copperware and the upturned vats of the cloth-dyers, the wooden blocks printing their robes with small elegant flowers in bright colours as they slipped and slid in the pigment. They stepped moaning on bagpipes and were pierced with gazelle horns in the street of the knifehandle-makers; they slithered in linseed in the place of the oil- and soap-merchants and in the lane of the pastrycooks waded through a glue-field of dough scuttled in trayloads on its way between housewife and ovens.

  It became a game in the thronged alleys; a game played in rough mime with much shouting and laughter by men of mixed races; who carried along for the length of a street and then dropped back to allow new faces to range alongside, pilfering, calling; grimly savouring the fun. No one laid a hand on the Janissaries; no one would dare. Until they came too close, and Lymond reached the place where daggers and scimitars were cheaply damascened, and furnished with sheaths of glass jewels. He took a handful of small knives in passing, and turning, studied and threw.

  He killed one Janissary and wounded two others. If it was a game, it was one invented by a harsh and mischievous brain: a fertile brain which brought its owner finally out into the fairground before the Beyazit Mosque, pursuit now failing and farther behind, There,

  Lymond threaded his way quickly through the performers, upsetting the man walking barefoot on scimitars and cannoning into another who was standing, his brow lined, transferring a three-hundred-pound vertical galley mast with infinite patience from one shoulder on to the next. By flinging themselves to one side, the remaining Janissaries contrived to avoid the slow, falling timber: they did not avoid the big Turk with the glass-headed arrows, who turned his aim towards them instead of the ostrich-eggs he was attempting to shoot without breaking. The arrows went through the leading Janissary’s arm, clean as a whistle, and the trick would have made the marksman’s fortune in alms, except that he threw his bow down and fled.

  Lymond hadn’t waited to see the outcome of that. A little before he had glimpsed, dimly lit by the torches, a tall swing of the kind common to Stamboul festivals, its seat at street level, its harness high in the rooftops. He reached it, still running lightly, and tipping out the hilarious occupier sprang on the seat. He worked it like a trapeze, twisting slightly and sending it hard and fast into the sky until, just as his pursuers rounded the corner, he let go.

  He landed precisely as he planned on all fours on the rooftops and, sliding along, was three streets away while the Janissaries were still pelting in confusion below. Then, anonymous under his hood, he slowed up and, stepping down into an air free of all tinge of geranium, made his way through the dark streets towards the black arching aqueduct of Valens. There, he let himself quietly into the house of Míkál and, pulling off robe and hood, threaded his way swiftly through Míkál’s cheerful companions and up to his room.

  Míkál was there already, sleek as a fawn on his cushions, dreamily touching his lute, his brilliant eyes lighting with pleasure. ‘Hâkim!’

  Beside him was Gabriel.

  ‘My dear Francis!’ Gently ridiculing, the mellow voice spoke. ‘What an expense of energy for a rather warm evening. If you had simply restrained yourself and trusted my Janissaries, they would have brought you straight here in the first place.’

  He almost paid for his malice. The knife was in Lymond’s hand before Graham Malett started to speak: quicker than thought his wrist rose to flick it and was caught, agonizingly, by a great fist from behind, followed instantly by the grasp of three or four men, crowding in through the doorway. Lymond twisted, his head down and using his feet, but although they swore at him and one fell back, moaning over his arm, the grip on him only intensified. They were, he saw, all Míkál’s friends. The giant of the sheep-bone held his right hand and ripped the knife from it, drawing blood, idly, down his arm with the blade. Then he was dragged erect, to stand before Gabriel.

  His clothes torn, his hair damply ravelled, his body and face marked with his handling, Lymond looked bright-eyed at the two on the cushions. ‘Why, Míkál?’ he said.

  A shade of sadness crossed the wild, hollow face. ‘It is laid on me by love,’ said Míkál. ‘As a cord of twisted bark bound upon the neck of each ploughing bull, I waded to thee through darkness, as though I waded through a full sea; but thou didst not receive me. I stood in darkness, with fear my innermost garment, and thou didst not warm me. Soon the devil thou dost swallow will claim thee, and where shall I be? I am a Pilgrim of Love, Hâkim; and thy soul is of rock.’

  Lymond spoke quietly. ‘One man who sells another, whatever the coin, is a traitor. Like the sons of Ghudáneh, you are not indeed gold, nor silver, nor pure silver, Míkál; but you are pottery.’

  ‘If we have reached a breathing-space in your recriminations?’ asked Gabriel amiably. He was wearing no turban; his short golden hair glittered bright in the lamplight and the spreading folds of his stiff Turkish robe were edged and lined with shining dark sables. ‘I have some business elsewhere to attend to. I find it quite astonishing that you apparently had hopes of defying me, here on my home ground. They are waiting for you at the Seraglio. Míkál?’

  ‘They are ready,’ said Míkál, and clapped his hands, smiling.

  With a force which pulled him off balance, Lymond was wrenched to one side by his captors. He regained his feet instantly and stood, his hands held hard at his back while someone with great deftness lashed both his wrists and his arms with first rope and then wire. Outside the door there was a brief bustle and another of Míkál’s friends came into the room, followed by two Janissaries, scimitars in hand, who ranged themselves one on each side of the doorposts. Then through the door, her chin defiantly high, walked Philippa, with the child Kuzucuyum asleep in her arms.

  Lymond said, ‘Míkál!’ and then was silent, his face very white.

  Philippa was greeny-pale too, with big circles under her eyes. She had seen Gabriel immediately and was staring at him, her nose pointing to the rafters, when she heard Lymond’s voice and turned, her chest heaving.

  ‘Hullo!’ Lymond said lightly. ‘The ancient and godly yeomanry of England. Come and join the club. Isn’t he heavy?’ His eyes, without expression, rested on the small bright head on her arm, and then returned to her face.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Philippa raggedly. The change in him paralysed her. He must have known it, because he smiled at her suddenly, his voice familiar and steady, and said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m sorry about the rats in the roost, but you can’t always choose your——’

  Gabriel shut his mouth for him, rising in a single smooth movement and taking the palm of his hand sharp as gunshot against Lymond’s face, first on the one side and then the other.

  ‘Control your nerves,’ said Gabriel pleasantly. He added to Philippa, ‘Do you know what an opium addict is like? Have you seen them in the street, foaming at the mouth like chafed boars and howling like dogs? You should learn what to look for: the diminished pupils, the slackened skin; the unsteady hands.’ He caught Lymond’s neck suddenly between iron fingers and, as he tried to fling himself free, fetched him another blow on the face which cut open his lip, blood running fast down his marked chin. His head turned away, Lymond had closed his eyes for a moment: opening them, he turned back and looked Gabriel again full in the face. ‘Violence. The mark of a fool,’ he said.

  ‘One flavour sets off another,’ said Gabriel calmly. ‘You do not know what is still to come. Like Väinämöinen to Vipunen; I shall sink my anvil further into the flesh of your heart; I shall install my forge in a deeper place. You felt that blow? Then you must be in need. Shall I bring you what you crave? Where is it: in your robe? In the purse they have unbuckled?’ Stooping, he picked up Lymond’s satchel where someone had thrown it and, unfastening it without haste, opened it to the light.

  ‘Alas!’ said Gabriel. ‘A seditious foreigner; and also a thief. Observe!’ And putting inside his hand, he withdraw a sparkling fistful of jewellery. ‘Purloined from my own chamber. I
t is known that you have spent all you have. Must you repair your own fortunes by robbing another?’

  ‘I wish I’d thought of it,’ said Lymond briefly. The accessibility of Gabriel’s costliest belongings was thus simply explained.

  There were other things in the satchel too: a box in gold leaf and some uncut stones, and a tespi, a prayer string of pearls itself worth all of three thousand pounds. Gabriel laid them aside, and at last found what he wanted. Philippa, all her strained attention on Lymond, saw his muscles harden, like a man expecting a sluice of cold water. Then Gabriel held something flat in his palm: a small marbled cake, tawny yellow in colour.

  ‘How much do you want?’ asked Graham Malett, his voice liquid with sympathy. ‘Two drachms: three? You need a killing dose now, don’t you, to keep your brain clear and your nerves steady and your purpose intact? A killing dose, often. How much would you like?’

  Kuzúm had wakened. Empty with fright and exhaustion, he lay against Philippa’s crumpled robe, his heavy blue eyes open on the incomprehensible scene. Lymond looked neither at Philippa nor the child. ‘None,’ he said dryly. ‘Your concern breaks my heart.’

  ‘This much?’ It was close enough even for Philippa to smell: the pungent high-seasoned savour of it must have filled Lymond’s senses. ‘Between the teeth,’ said Gabriel, gently insistent. ‘Since your hands are not free.’

  Seams of blood and sweat bright on his face, Lymond did not speak this time, but turned his head fully away; his lips shut hard; his breathing in spite of himself uneven and quick. Gabriel’s face remained pleasant. ‘You won’t take a little? Then have it all, my sorry, hungering slut,’ he said lightly; and as the men on either side of Lymond forced round his head, he stepped forward, the cake in his hand.

  Philippa dropped Kuzúm. It was all she could think of to do, and her heart ached for the lost, bewildered child he had become in a matter of hours. But the movement and the wild, hoarse screaming he started brought all eyes towards her and gave Lymond a second: a moment’s grace to postpone the sickening humiliation which Gabriel planned.

  Lymond used the moment. His hands were tied, but he could wield the weight of his body: he could kick, and could bite. As their grip loosened he tore himself half out of the hands of his captors and flung his shoulder against Gabriel. The opium dropped, smashed on the floor, before Gabriel’s hands, reacting instantly, came up to grip him; and the others, doubled up and grunting under the wild, sudden attack, pounced in their turn and threw Francis Crawford, still twisting and fighting below them till he lay half dazed, winded and bloody on Míkál’s fine carpet.

  Míkál, kneeling beside him, looked up at Gabriel with lustrous eyes. Gabriel, imperial in Venetian crimson and sables, stood and stared with distaste at the man on the ground.

  ‘Violence?’ he said. ‘The mark of a fool. You are distressing the child. Perhaps you will have more care for the other when you reach the Seraglio. He should be there by now, along with Abernethy, your devoted mahout. You may even recognize others of those you have dragged to their damnation through your insufferable conceit.… Since you are so wild I think our friends should remove, for safety, whatever senses you may have left.’

  Philippa covered Kuzúm’s eyes as they delivered the blow that turned Francis Crawford over and over and left him unconscious at last at their feet. Prone on the bare boards, he shared the covered cart which took the Janissaries and herself to Topkapi, but he was far from waking, and Kuzúm sobbed all the way, afraid of the blood and the way his body was shaken by the jolt of the wheels. They stopped at the Bab-i-Humayun, and again at the Ortokapi, where she and Kuzúm were made to get down.

  She did not see what happened to Lymond, nor would anyone answer her questions. Inside the Gate of Felicity they took Kuzúm from her. His screams and her own shaken voice arguing must have wakened that part of the harem until the child’s voice was suddenly cut off by a hand over his mouth, and she was taken in turn by two of the black eunuchs she did not know, and thrust into a strange room, which was locked. From the noises outside, she thought they were taking Kuzúm to the nurse’s courtyard, and prayed that it might be so, and that Tulip was there. Then, because she felt too sick and too weary to cry, she sat silent and wide-eyed by the barred window, and waited for dawn.

  25

  Constantinople: The Divan

  Lymond woke, shivering, while it was still dark, every muscle a stiff and separate pain. He was lying on matting; his own rolled kaftán under his head, and his wrist was lifted between someone’s fingers, quickly removed. Then a weak candle flickered alight, and he saw Jerott kneeling beside him; and Archie’s dark turbaned face in the background. He smiled at them both and said to Jerott, ‘How in hell did you. ‥?’ He was overtaken before he finished by a convulsive yawn and, still smiling a little, put both hands up and over his face, shivering still. Archie disappeared into the darkness behind him.

  Jerott said, ‘We’re in the Seraglio, I think in the Third Court. They sent word to the Embassy that Marthe was ready to come out, and asked for an escort. Then when I got here they locked me up on my own. Archie joined me a few hours ago. I don’t know where Marthe or Onophrion are.’

  Lymond said, ‘Onophrion came with you?’ He yawned again and said, ‘Hell,’ between chattering teeth; then, struggling, sat up and buried his head in his hands. Jerott, his face grim, looked over his head and said, ‘Yes: he came with me. They’ve got Khaireddin too, but we don’t know where. Archie says Míkál betrayed the whole plan. I thought perhaps it was Marthe, in spite of the treasure.’

  Lymond said, ‘What treasure?’ through his hands, and Jerott told him. Archie was taking a hell of a time. But then of course he had the stuff sewn in the seams of his clothes, to be sure of it. Jerott finished what he was saying and was trying to think of something else when Archie’s turbaned head loomed out of the darkness. Jerott got to his feet and moved away, as far as he could towards the high barred little window. He waited a long time, until Archie’s voice stopped; and then turned and went back.

  Lymond was asleep; and Archie, using the last light from the candle they had saved for this purpose, was stowing away again with care what he had carried inside his clothes. To Jerott’s raised eyebrows: ‘Ye can talk,’ he said. ‘He won’t hear you. That’s something else I’ve given him, because the poppy isn’t quick any longer. But he’s had a dose of that, too, I wouldna like to give to a beast.… If it’s any comfort, he’s very near the edge now. He couldna have gone on much longer.’

  ‘He won’t have to,’ said Jerott. ‘I imagine tomorrow will end it, one way or another, for all of us. He has enough now to see him through, and that’s all that matters.’ He paused, and said, in a detached voice, ‘It’s a pity we didn’t mind our own business, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ said Archie. He finished what he was doing, consulted Jerott’s face and, leaning over, pinched out the candle. ‘I doubt, sir,’ said Archie, ‘if we had kept out of it, you could no more have lived with yourself after than I could.’

  The two mutes who had locked her in brought Philippa breakfast next morning, and the wherewithal to make a rough toilet. She had just finished when the cell door opened and was shut and locked again behind Marthe.

  Marthe, it was clear, was as bewildered as Philippa, although in a moment she had masked it; and, surveying the tray of half-eaten food, observed, ‘I don’t blame you; although, I advise you, it is easier to be bold if your stomach is full. You didn’t escape?’

  ‘I did. We were brought back.’ She explained, and listened in turn, flushing, to Marthe’s story. ‘They kept you because you’d carried a message for me. I’m sorry. And it all went for nothing because Míkál told Gabriel everything.’

  ‘Míkál,’ said Marthe, ‘who went with you to find the child at Thessalonika?’ Onophrion had told her all they had learned on that journey, when he and Lymond had sailed on the same route with Míkál on board. She said, ‘Weren’t there accidents?’

  ‘Where? I
don’t know,’ said Philippa.

  ‘On board ship with dear Mr Crawford.… It doesn’t matter,’ said Marthe. ‘It isn’t your fault. You had an outburst of philanthropy and I made an error of judgement, and it has landed us both in precisely the same spot.’

  Untouched and slender, she seemed to Philippa’s eyes quite unchanged: a little thinner perhaps; a little quieter perhaps, but that was all. It did not occur to Philippa to wonder how much she herself had grown in the last year or more; or how she had altered. She had seen herself in Lymond’s eyes as the schoolgirl she had always been: an additional burden to be reassured. She did not see in Marthe’s quieter mood a sober assessment of what the long imprisonment must have meant, and of the kind of spirit which had not only endured it but built on it. Philippa said, her hands hard one on top of the other, ‘There was another child, too. I don’t know if they caught him. Gabriel says one of them is his. I wonder what they’ll do to the children?’

  ‘Nothing, probably,’ said Marthe. ‘Mr Crawford, I suppose, stands to pay the full penalty for taking you and the children away against the Sultan’s commands, and we shall be punished for helping him.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ said Philippa. ‘They talked of sedition. They’ve even accused him of theft. You see, Gabriel is going to deal with him in his own way, and he must have full justification.’ She said, hesitating, ‘You said once that you were forced into bringing that message. If you could prove that …?’

  ‘I don’t think,’ said Marthe calmly, ‘that it would do me much good.’

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ said Philippa gently. ‘He won’t kill you.’

  The glint of a cold surprise, so familiar from the early days on the Dauphiné, returned to Marthe’s level blue gaze. ‘You think I would scuttle into any man’s harem? Would you?’

  ‘Yes. For Kuzúm,’ said Philippa. She hesitated, guessing. ‘People help one another. Wouldn’t … Mr Blyth perhaps do the equivalent for you?’