Pawn in Frankincense

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Or by the two children. In his next move, the move he was never to make, Gabriel would have put Lymond’s King in check so that Lymond could free himself in one way only: by taking a child.

  So Gabriel had intended. So, with all the power in his hands, he had made his delicate, malicious moves to this point, and so all the pieces around Lymond were there in position, except the second locking Bishop, whose move Lymond had forestalled.

  Graham Malett had forgotten one thing. Far off, unregarded on the edge of the board, stood Lymond’s Queen, and Georges Gaultier, his own Bishop, still there in his corner. And in a straight line, from Queen and from Bishop there ran a free, shining path to each child.

  In three words, Lymond could direct Marthe, his Queen, down that path to the death of Khaireddin. Or instead, he could send Gaultier, square by square, to take the Bishop played by Kuzúm. Either move would free him from all fear of checkmate. More …

  Either move would checkmate Graham Malett instead.

  Oh Christ, the bairns, thought Jerott flatly. Oh Christ, one of them; Kuzúm or Khaireddin, who must now pay for the life it had never had; for the happiness it never had; for the stranger’s sin which begot it, and the stranger’s quarrel which brought it here. One life to save seven, and the horror facing Philippa as Gabriel’s mistress. One life pinched out on a harpstring, and Gabriel’s King would be locked in checkmate, as Lymond’s was to have been. One life, and Gabriel had lost for ever; had forfeited his existence and that of his men. One life, and Gabriel, here and now, in this hour, was dead.

  Changeless; like the machine Jerott had felt him to be, Lymond turned in the long silence to Roxelana Sultán; and the Queen, facing him, put back her veil. A narrow, vigorous face, a small mouth and arched nose and shrewd, painted dark eyes studied him, from the fair orderly hair to the rich scarlet robe. Lymond said, ‘High and mighty Princess … thy rules have been obeyed; thy burdens borne without protest. The game is now mine. In one move I shall claim the life of Jubrael Pasha, as you have promised, and of all those on his side save the children. I beg thy highness’s word that this will be permitted, and that my friends and I may then go free.’

  ‘It is so,’ said Roxelana; but Gabriel’s smooth voice, a thread of discord somewhere in its honey, said strongly, ‘Princess, what are you thinking of? Let them free, to bandy your letters from court to court, from gutter to gutter? Might they not go to the Sultan himself in the field? What tale will they tell him?’

  ‘A tale of a traitrous Vizier,’ said Roxelana calmly. ‘And some forged papers.… Make thy move, Hâkim.’

  But Lymond did not turn away. Instead he said, in the same level voice, ‘Once, Princess, you returned, out of the delicacy of your spirit, what you could not accept without granting a favour. That which you returned is again in the care of your Treasurer and I have to beg you, a second time, to take this gift in your hands.…’

  From Lymond to Roxelana, a bribe. Jerott, following every syllable and the sense of nothing, wondered bleakly what the gift was; and then saw Philippa’s face and wondered again. It would be, he supposed, with Kiaya Khátún. Roxelana said, ‘Thou art foolhardy with thy wealth. What now is the wish of thy heart?’

  ‘Only this,’ said Francis Crawford. ‘That when I make this move, I may let the child live.’

  ‘That is not the rule,’ said Roxelana Sultán calmly. ‘The rule is clear. Break it, and you lose.’

  The blue eyes, searching met hers; but the dark gaze gave back nothing. Lymond said, in the same prosaic voice, ‘Then allow me to take the child’s place. I have no objections, and you might find it … convenient.’

  ‘Thy persistence does thee honour,’ said Roxelana blandly. ‘But the answer is no. Make thy move, or forgo it. Had a pestilence seized them this summer, the children would have suffered no less. Now you need lose only one. Choose, and move.’

  From her place by Kuzúm, the light of her life, Philippa stood up. She did not say goodbye, nor did she kiss him or touch him, but moving slowly backwards she withdrew from the chessboard and stood still, her eyes on Lymond, leaving Kuzúm alone. The shepherd clutch thee fast. O my lamb; O my lambkin …

  Khaireddin had been alone for a long time, in the square next to that which Lymond had vacated to go to the throne. His smiles, which no one returned, had run dry now; and through his courage a whimper broke loose and a single tear, escaping, slipped down his cheek.

  Lymond didn’t come back to the board. He stood by the Kislar Agha, looking before him; his brightly lit face and hair an unfamiliar intaglio of highlights and unexpected sharp shadows. Still as the clock-spinet, thought Jerott, marking the hours, its case rimed with spectacular jewels; its inner wheels blindly spinning, awaiting the impersonal touch on the lever to trip it into a mechanical cascade of action. Which child to use for his checkmate? Which child to have killed?

  Gabriel, rousing minute by minute from his paralysis of disbelief, cut through their thoughts. ‘Give up, Francis. How can you know what you’re doing? You don’t make decisions at low ebb. Not decisions you’ll live with in after years. Leave the children alone. I won’t checkmate you. I’ll give you stalemate in a handful of moves. Stalemate.… A draw, neither winning. You go free, and so do I.’

  ‘No,’ said Lymond.

  ‘Your vow?’ said Gabriel. ‘That means nothing either? You would have your son strangled?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Francis Crawford said steadily, ‘which is my son. I do tell you this. If you are a Moslem, make your prayers. If you are a Christian, make your peace with that God. I have reached my decision.’

  Jerott looked at the children, his heart in his throat. Which? The one who had experienced love and a modicum of happiness, or the one who had not. The one whose life had been innocent, or the one who had been earliest corrupted and whose first uncertain steps had just been taken towards his birthright of friendship and joy. To which would he offer the gift of survival … and how had he chosen, knowing nothing? Knowing that the dead child might be his own, and the survivor the child of Gabriel and his sister?

  Lymond said, ‘Marthe’

  The end of a baby’s life in two syllables. The direction to Marthe, his Queen, to take the Knight in her path.

  And the Knight was the child who had not yet known happiness; the child Lymond had drawn to himself. The little boy called Khaireddin, with the bruises still on his body from the nightingale-dealer’s house.

  The word broke Philippa, as an iron smashes a lock. Air rushed into her throat and tears blinded her eyes, running over her fingers as she pressed them fast to her lids. She moved then a little way on to the board, towards the light of her life, and then stopped, her lips trembling, as Marthe began her steady walk, a trifle stiffly, towards the small boy at the end. He noticed her coming and Marthe smiled at him faintly, still walking, and said to Philippa as she passed, quietly, ‘Leave him to me.’

  So Philippa turned and knelt by Kuzúm, but gently, so that the other child would not see and be hurt, and gathering the child’s bright head in her lap, covered his eyes.

  Marthe had almost reached Khaireddin when he became frightened and, his face crumpling, suddenly made towards Francis Crawford. Halfway there he halted, bemused by the look on Lymond’s face and after a moment said in a small voice, ‘I’ve ‘topped being a bad boy. I’ve ‘topped.… Mo chridh is a good little boy now.…’

  And at the Gaelic, Jerott said, ‘Dear God in Heaven,’ and looked away from Francis Crawford, whose face was that of a man tortured with thirst, or lack of air, or the bitterest hunger. Then Jerott saw that the mutes were closing in, and that in a moment the child would reach Francis’s arms, and he began to run, to spare him the last terrible betrayal.

  But Míkál got there first, and swept the child into his own embrace, all carnation and jasmine and soft hair and bright tinkling jewels. ‘Come, my love,’ said Míkál, ‘and say goodnight to the dark.’ And held him close, full of a sweet young compassion, as the little boy died.

/>   Francis Crawford, who had commanded it, watched the killing take place. His belly heaving, Jerott kept his eyes there as well, for what Francis saw he must know, although he hardly knew why. They had used a knife, so the child’s face was not distorted: Míkál, when it was over, laid him down and wiped a trace of blood from the small lips. Then he lifted Khaireddin again, gently, to carry him out; and Lymond moved swiftly from Jerott’s side to where the fine hair, curling like silk, lay on the Geomaler’s arm; and bending his head, kissed the dead child, as he had not kissed the living, full on the mouth.

  Then he turned, Thanatos of the dark underworld claiming his chosen; and walked straight to Gabriel.

  Gabriel struggled. He talked and shouted and promised glory and riches, and finally cursed as men seldom venture to curse, the malevolence dripping on to them all as he twisted and rolled in the hands of the mutes. His men did not help him. He spat in Lymond’s face as finally, every limb pinned, helpless as a baron of beef, he stood, his white and gold silk grating against the smooth white and blue of the tiles, while the Kislar Agha, without a word, gave Lymond his sword. It was a good weapon, about four feet long, with the hilt set in perfect gold fish-scales and the sheath sewn with coral and diamonds. There were even a line or two of the Qur’ân engraved on its blade.

  Lymond got the mutes to free Gabriel just before he killed him; partly, thought Jerott, because he could not bring himself to execute a motionless man, and partly to manhandle him. He did, laying aside the sword, and Jerott looked away from that. He thought, towards the end, that Gabriel had reached the end of his wits, for although he fought, it was without conviction, and the promises and threats he was shouting were gibberish. Then Lymond flung him against the wall and drove the Kislar Agha’s sword into his chest up to the hilt, and again four more times. He stopped himself at that, with a strength of will as great as any he had shown that afternoon, and flung down the sword. The red silk robe showed nothing, although it glistened stiffly, where it caught the new lamplight. Gabriel, in a stained heap on the ground, was quite dead.

  Silence fell. Breathing very fast, his yellow head bent, Lymond remained looking down at the dead man, his hands flat on the bloodstained tiles at his back. Jerott retreated; and did not know Marthe was watching him until her dry voice said, not unkindly, ‘If you are going to be sick, get it over with outside and come back. We’re going to have a full-scale collapse on our hands in a moment.… How much opium does he need?’

  Looking at her, Jerott forgot the agony in his guts for a moment. He said, ‘Your cheeks are wet,’ and when she shook her head impatiently, the single deep line like Lymond’s between her fair brows, he took hold of himself and said soberly, ‘Archie will do it. How did you know?’

  ‘That he was an addict? I know the Levant,’ Marthe said. They were pulling Gabriel’s body away: the eyes, the blue of Kúzum’s or the blue of Khaireddin’s, were open and vacant. His men had long since been dealt with, the mutes filing out. Lymond hadn’t moved and Jerott, hesitating, turned to the throne.

  Roxelana had gone. Marthe’s cool voice said, ‘She left a command with the Kislar Agha. Tonight, we are to have the hospitality of the selamlik, with all they can offer. Tomorrow we shall be escorted from the Seraglio; the child and Philippa also.’

  Jerott looked round. The room had emptied itself but for the Kislar Agha and the black eunuchs waiting there by the dais, and the Janissaries on guard at the door. Three men in leather jackets had taken hold of the painted chess cloth and were rolling it up. The patches of blood had not yet dried on the paint, and their fingers were red. They jerked it a little under Gaultier, who had sunk down, spent with relief, his head on his knees, and he looked up and rose, stumbling out of their way. Philippa had already moved, her face bone-white, fiercely protecting Kuzúm, who had broken down into tears; and locking out everything else. Archie had gone over to Lymond.

  Lymond didn’t look up. But when Archie’s brown hands, fumbling, tried to unfasten his surcoat he looked down and said, ‘Why …?’

  Archie said, ‘It’s stained, sir. They want to give you another.’

  Then Lymond lifted his head and said flatly, ‘But I wasn’t anywhere near him.…’ And Jerott, listening, realized that it was Khaireddin of whom he was speaking; and that the death of Gabriel had already gone from his mind. After so much toil and effort and agony, Gabriel’s end had made no impression; had meant nothing compared to what had happened before; had been only an intermission in the acts of a tragedy. Jerott said harshly, ‘Let’s get home; and to hell with selamlik hospitality.… Archie, what can you give him?’

  The surcoat was open, but Lymond ignored it, standing still, his hands spread on the wall. Archie said, ‘He’s had all he can take. He carried it with him. I can’t give him any more.’ Archie paused, and then said to Jerott, ‘We can’t leave the Seraglio, sir. Not if it’s a command. Mlle Marthe has already told the Kislar Agha we’d prefer to go out tonight, but they say it must be tomorrow. He’s waiting now, sir, for us to follow him.’

  Marthe’s voice said quietly, to Jerott and Archie. ‘You go. Take the others. I’ll bring Mr Crawford.’

  Archie hesitated only a moment. Then turning to Jerott he made up his mind. ‘She’s right. Come, sir. Let them be.’

  Marthe watched them go. Then she turned to her brother.

  Quiet and firm, her light voice addressing him made no concessions to tragedy. ‘You are not going to fall. This is shock. Put your hand on my arm.’

  There was a long pause; then without really seeing her Francis Crawford did remove one hand from the wall and stretch it, groping, before him. Marthe took his palm then in hers and, drawing him from the wall, supported him lightly. ‘It’s all over now. Leave it. You can change nothing by staying.’ The voice, so like his own, was quite even. ‘The moment is past. The chessboard has gone; and the people. You must let me take the room from you too.’

  Outside, it was dusk. On the way to the threshold she had slipped off his stained surcoat and he stood beside her now in the European clothes he had worn at Míkál’s house, torn a little where Gabriel had manhandled him, his face still bruised and his lip cut and swollen from it.

  But Gabriel was dead. And beside her, the man Gabriel had so scornfully challenged now stood, wit exhausted and self-command fallen away: all consciousness reduced to a single lens projecting, over and over, a small boy running; and stopping, frightened, to beg; and Míkál’s voice saying, Come, my love.… Say goodnight to the dark.

  Archie would give no more opium: not yet. Lymond was too near the edge: too near the limit of the drug: the place where, driven beyond their means, first the body relinquished the race; and then the mind. Madness cometh sometime of passions of the soul, as of business and of great thoughts, of sorrow and of too great study, and of dread. Marthe said, thinking aloud with that austere, sexless mind, ‘Would madness be kind?’

  They were waiting for the Kislar Agha to return and conduct them to their quarters. Lymond shook his head slowly, his eyes looking at nothing, and Marthe said again, watching him, ‘Would it be kind? The spinet is there. Shall I play for you?’

  And the calculated cruelty of it stung him awake. Within the dead wastes of his mind she struck a spark: a spark of new shock, which must have glimmered, for the first time, on the days and months and years still lying ahead. Lymond looked at her, his eyes open and living, and said, ‘Leave me here. Please go and follow the others.’

  Blue eyes stared into blue. ‘No,’ said Marthe. ‘Such things will not last. Music makes you a coward because you have no other key for your passions. One day it will come. And you forget. You have one child to see still to safety. I think you owe that to him, and to Philippa. Think … when Philippa goes back home from this, what will become of her? Will a convent accept her? Or will she become as Janet Fleming, the courtesan she is now trained to be? She has not considered these things. You must do this for her. Escape into self-destruction by all means; but not until your duty is d
one.’

  The Kislar Agha was coming. Francis Crawford stood beside Marthe and awaited him, drugged and dizzy in his torn clothes, and said nothing more.

  The day appointed had come. And in it he had indeed received, as Gabriel promised, the anvil sunk in his heart.

  When the time came, he walked collectedly enough by Marthe’s side through the garden to the rooms set aside for their quarters. Then the head eunuch left and Lymond, groping, put both hands on the doorpost and rested his wet brow on his wrists. Marthe said, ‘Yes. You are going to faint. But it will be more comfortable here than in that death-chamber. And here we shall see that you wake.’

  They had put a blanket for Kuzúm in Marthe’s chamber. She watched Philippa settle him, fussing; before observing with faint and familiar irony, ‘I don’t intend to eat him, with lettuce. If he’s a quarter as fatigued as I am, he will sleep until morning.’

  Philippa pushed back her hair. The moment when Kuzúm was asleep and she had no more to do was one she had tried not to think of, ever since leaving the Throne Room. She said, ‘I’m sorry. It must be so irritating. I know he’ll be all right, of course.’ She hesitated, and then said, pallidly cheerful, ‘Have you heard what they’ve done? I’m the prize in the chess game. They’ve put me with Mr Crawford in the same room.’

  For a moment Marthe stared at her. Then she said pleasantly, ‘I’m sure Mr Crawford will have no objections. But if you want it changed, I imagine you have only to ask the maids, or the eunuchs.’

  ‘I have,’ said Philippa. They won’t. I’ve even seen Kiaya Khátún. She says if we move, Roxelana will be offended.’

  ‘I see,’ said Marthe. After a moment she said, ‘By all means then; we must not offend Roxelana before morning. What does Mr Crawford say to an odalisque in his bed? Is it a bed?’

  Philippa laughed a little. ‘It’s a European four-poster,’ she said. ‘He’s awake now, I think; but I haven’t seen him. They’re bringing us supper soon in the other room.’