He had been going to say ‘more like a bandit than a diplomat’, but humour might not be in this man’s canon, particularly if he was in fact a bandit. Nervousness was bringing Christopher close to hysteria. If he had a sword or pistol they might be more even, but this strategic silence was too much for him. He took another sip of his tea, rested his hands on his knees and took a breath.
‘I have a son, sir. One who is lost. I need to find where he is in the palace, so I can bring him home. Is this what you think you might be able to help me with?’
His host looked unimpressed. ‘So not entirely lost if you know where he is?’
‘I had hoped the ambassador would intercede for me with the Sultan, but he seems unable to accommodate me. I …’ Christopher faltered. He had been about to mention the map but stopped himself just in time.
The man put down his glass. ‘Show me.’
The hairs on the back of Christopher’s neck prickled. ‘Show you what, sir?’
Silence. It stretched again beyond the bounds of politeness and became oppressive, but still the man did not reply. Christopher’s fear, lulled earlier by his captor’s politeness, came tumbling back. The man’s face remained open, even bland, but his eyes hardened until their hazelwood hue became obsidian.
Christopher spread his hands in what he hoped was a conciliatory gesture. ‘What is it you want of me, sir?’
‘What you want is your son. What I want is my map.’ The man’s tone was still conversational, mild and even, with not a hint of menace. Only his eyes betrayed a different truth.
Christopher fought his inclination to say, ‘What map?’ Such a hasty rejoinder might make things a whole lot worse. This man, whoever and whatever he was, could prove himself to be as dangerous as a loose cannon on board a ship. So, what should he say?
The map Abel had thrust at him in Dorset could not be the same map this man wanted. How could it be possible? Yet his map depicted the palace in Constantinople and here they sat, in that very city. He remembered how alarmed the ambassador had been when he had seen it, with his warning about spies. If what he had and what this man wanted were one and the same, it could only be that someone in the ambassador’s house had communicated the fact to him. Yet only the ambassador had seen it. What had he said? He had mentioned the rooms in the palace. It could have been enough for someone who had overheard the conversation to know what they had been talking about. And yet no one else had been in the room and the door had been closed. What about the window? That had been mostly shuttered against the sun. Even so, someone outside might have been able to hear what was said.
Perhaps the most important thing to consider was who this person might be working for. Presumably, the most dangerous would be if he was in the pay of the Sultan.
Did he want to bargain with him or, if he admitted to the map, would he simply take it and get Ahmed to dispatch him and dump his body in an alley somewhere? All Christopher had were questions that he could not ask. Did this man know where his son was in the palace? Might he need the map to release other Christian slaves? Somehow, that didn’t seem likely.
The silence was stretching out. What to do? If he drew the map out of his pocket and offered it, would he then have his son delivered safe to him? Would the second follow on the first? Somehow, he could not believe it. So, what was the worst that could happen? The loss of the map, his life and his son. Therefore, he must play his only card as well as he could. This man might be honest or not, cunning and insane or open and intelligent. It was impossible to tell.
Christopher strove to keep his voice even. ‘I cannot show you now. I do not have it with me, but if it will help you to deliver my son to me I am happy for you to have it.’ To keep himself steady he lowered his eyes. They fell on the man’s hand. He didn’t seem aware that his left hand, still curled into a fist, was leaning on the edge of the dish of sweetmeats, spilling the contents. Christopher wondered why the man didn’t move it. Then he realised that the hand was not real. It looked a fair representation, covered as it was in pale leather, but there was obviously no feeling in it. Christopher noticed two metal knobs, or levers, protruding from the wrist. What they could be for he couldn’t imagine, but the thing invoked a feeling of horror and fascination in equal measure.
The man removed his mechanical hand from the table and leant back in his chair. On the crushed metal dish was a clear imprint of the fist. Christopher found it impossible to look away. Rising unbidden into his mind was an irresistible image of that hand. He saw it unsheathed, in its raw metal state. Would it be burnished steel, blue and silver, small plates overlaid on the fingers like old-fashioned armour or the carapace of a woodlouse? Or would it be black as iron, like those large nimble spiders that run around the edges of rooms, seeking another to devour? He dragged his gaze away, but not until an image came to him of the man laying that hand on Christopher’s naked flesh, gently trailing the cold dead fingers down his spine and on down with Christopher helpless to resist. Something of the shame he felt must have shown in his face, because the man glanced at the hand and back to Christopher with an expression that told him he knew very well the erotic thoughts the hand engendered.
‘So, let us say for the moment that you do not carry this map on your person … I hope it has a safe resting place.’ His gaze settled on Christopher’s coat.
‘Indeed.’ Christopher shifted his position on the rugs. He began to wonder if the man had magical powers that allowed him both to conjure erotica and to see through broadcloth and into pockets.
‘I can enquire about the boy while you fetch the map. Bring it to the market tomorrow afternoon. Ahmed will find you. Please don’t think to cheat me. You will find I can be a reasonable friend but a very bad enemy.’ He got up and came round to Christopher’s side of the table. Before Christopher could rise, the man rested his mechanical fist on his shoulder. The weight and pressure made him feel like a man trapped in battle under a dead horse. He was so close that Christopher could smell mint on the man’s breath, along with a slight scent that reminded him of overripe plums lying in the sunlit grass, being eaten by wasps. There was something about his closeness that made Christopher more frightened than he had ever been in his life, while at the same time his flesh was caught between desire and distaste. He closed his eyes. If the hand drew him closer, he wouldn’t be able to resist.
After a few more seconds’ pressure, the man took away his hand. When Christopher dared to open his eyes, he was quite alone. For a few minutes he stayed where he was, trying to get air into his lungs and to still his racing heart. When he eventually made his way out of the back room, the shopkeeper was busy serving a customer and paid no attention to him.
James Bramble, for that was his name, watched Christopher Morgan secretly from behind a gap in the rugs as he left in obvious confusion, and not a little fear. It had been a most satisfactory meeting. Since the day his father had run him over with his cart and caused his terrible injuries, James had felt entitled to make others suffer for his pain. Even before his accident, he had preferred cruelty to gentleness. It was inconvenient to remember that he was partly to blame by not obeying his father’s instruction to stay out of the way, and so he chose not to remember. In fact, he was quite able to believe that his injuries were taken with courage during the war, and to tell others so. Whatever was convenient for him became his truth.
From being the intelligent and injured son of a carter, sitting ignored in the corners of rooms, he had discovered how valuable eavesdropping could be. From that small beginning, he had created a network of spies, people he had charmed, paid, or threatened to provide him with what he wanted. Mostly he wanted information, for that brought power, sold well, and with his convoluted string of puppets, was difficult to trace back to him. At first, his only desire was to stop the boys’ mockery of his twisted body and lack of hand. When fear made those who knew him smile instead of tease, he grew more ambitious. Next, he wanted a new hand, a mind-numbing expense for such as he, but last year he
had it, his cunning hand, made by the finest German armourers, a thing of enormous satisfaction.
Now what he wanted was absolute power within his sphere, and he almost had that too. Servant to none, he sold his secrets piecemeal. He prided himself on knowing everything about his world, and so, today had given him much amusement. He remembered that boy, and where he had put him, but there was no money or influence to be had by telling that to Christopher Morgan. He was obviously a poor man, with nothing to offer. The map would not be payment, for did it not already belong to him? Its loss had been most inconvenient. One of the places he lived quietly when in England was on the moor, not so very far from Dario. Although he kept himself apart from the village he had benefitted from using the Johnsons for some years. The need to destroy them for his own security was another irritant, because Daniel Johnson had then to be replaced by another man, in another place. In short, the whole situation had been trying, but thanks to his network here, the map was nearly his again. He did not doubt that Christopher Morgan would bring it to him. Thinking he would see his son again would make most men reckless. Ahmed could kill him once the map was theirs.
But James Bramble had seen something else in Christopher. It was not simply fear for and confusion about his son. No, there was more. He had seen that unmistakable frisson in the man’s face, the twin revulsion and desire that had not been acknowledged but would now haunt him. For in spite of his perilous situation, a part of Christopher had wanted James Bramble’s hands upon him. The most secret, forbidden part of his nature had been revealed to them both, putting him even more in his tormentor’s power. Perhaps it would be a waste to kill Christopher Morgan. Perhaps he might be useful in the future, in some way. That being so, it would be amusing to give him a gift he would not want. It would ensure he was remembered, and James Bramble liked to be remembered almost as much as he liked to be feared.
Unaware he had been studied, Christopher tried to retrace his steps, keeping in mind where the rug shop was, but it was impossible. The covered market was vast and there were many shops that sold rugs. He found himself wandering like a lost child, at a loss how to exit the place. Eventually, he emerged into a poor alley where naked children played beside the corpse of a cat. He picked his way through the filth and, after passing along several similarly malodorous alleys, he found himself in a series of rather better streets. At last he entered a large space, with an open gate in front of him.
There was a bustle here. It seemed to be some other kind of market. He entered freely and saw to his horror that it was a slave auction. Had Abel been here? Christopher wondered if they might keep any sort of record.
A collection of young women was being auctioned and there were no children on offer that he could see. There seemed to be a lot more spectators than buyers, some of them European. Christopher found himself standing by a Frenchman, who in spite of Christopher’s nationality was prepared to be friendly.
‘We Christians must support each other in this country. We cannot afford to let politics get in the way so far from home.’
Christopher nodded his agreement. ‘Where have these women come from?’
The Frenchman shrugged. ‘From many places. These are second-hand slaves. They have already been trained, so command high prices.’ He nudged Christopher. ‘That one is wasted as a domestic servant. A pity we are not allowed to buy.’
‘Are we not?’
The Frenchman laughed. ‘Had you set your heart on her?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘It matters not. It is usually possible to find a local willing to bid for you. Would you like me to ask?’
‘No! That is’ – Christopher bowed slightly – ‘thank you, but no. I only called in out of curiosity. I was looking for the sale of children … boys …’
The Frenchman raised his eyebrows. ‘You have the wrong day. Of course, the best are taken for the palace, but there are a few traders who specialise in such tastes.’ He observed Christopher’s horrified expression and murmured an apology. ‘I seem to have misunderstood, sir. Will you excuse me?’ He pushed his way through the crowd and out of sight before Christopher had thought to ask him about record-keeping.
After leaving the slave market, it took Christopher an hour of dead ends and false turns before he found himself back at the sea. He made his way to a jetty and waited for a boat, feeling sick at heart. It was vital not to make a false move so far as that man was concerned, but Christopher had small idea what a false move might be. Even so, as he got into the boat and was rowed out into the choppy channel, he knew he would go to the market tomorrow. He had to. He would give the map to the man with the false hand because that man had said he would make enquiries and had sounded more able than the ambassador. The poor copy he had attempted to draw while at sea was almost useless, but he comforted himself that there was, after all, as a matter of last resort, a fair copy safe at Whitehall.
19
The following day, Christopher went straight to the market for the map’s owner to find him. He did not have long to wait. He was almost pleased to see Ahmed and followed him willingly to the carpet shop. The nameless man was not there, but Ahmed held out the hood and this time Christopher was allowed to put it on himself. After another disorientating walk guided by Ahmed’s hand on his arm instead of the knife, Christopher found himself in the storeroom of a spice shop. Plump sacks were stacked up from floor to ceiling around the small room. The spicy aroma completely masked the usual street odour of excrement and rotting vegetables. Ahmed leant against one of the stacks, teased a dried chilli from a small hole in the sacking and chewed on it appreciatively.
There were no chairs, no table and no offer of refreshment. Only the man was there, and he wasted no time in getting to the point. He held out his good hand.
‘The map.’
Christopher’s own hand went unwillingly to his coat and pulled the map out of his pocket. ‘What did you discover about my son?’
‘Have you a wife?’
‘No.’
‘A pity. Still, wives are to be got.’
‘What has this to do with my son?’
The man looked irritated. ‘Why, get a wife to get a son.’
Christopher swallowed with difficulty. ‘What are you saying? You are speaking in riddles! Are you telling me Abel is dead?’
The man snatched the map without warning from Christopher’s grasp and unfolded it. Ahmed gave a hiss. The man made no sound, but it was clear by the muscles tightening in his face and the way he gripped the map that both men were strongly affected by what they saw.
‘Where did you get this?’ Perhaps his voice was a little higher in pitch than usual.
‘From my son.’
The man stared at Christopher. He spoke slowly, as if to an idiot. ‘And where did he get it?’
Christopher swallowed. ‘I don’t know.’
Ahmed moved towards him and Christopher backed away, feeling behind him for the doorway. His hand met an open bag, into which his fingers plunged, meeting a soft powder. He withdrew them and tried, with as much dignity as he could muster, to explain.
‘He had been captured by …’ He spread his hands. ‘I don’t know who, but I suspect a local smuggler. He had momentarily escaped and gave me the map seconds before he was recaptured, and I was shot almost to death.’
Ahmed leant back against the sacks and pulled another chilli from its fellows.
‘Where did this happen?’ said the man. ‘In England, I daresay. In the West Country, perhaps?’
Christopher took his turn to stare. ‘Yes, you are right. How did you know?’
‘Well, well.’ The man’s expression was unreadable. He folded the map and handed it to Ahmed. ‘As you have returned what belongs to me, even though I did not wish it back in this country, I will let it pass.’
‘But, sir,’ said Christopher with a desperation he couldn’t help but show. ‘My son! If that is your map you must surely know where my son is!’
‘Must?’ The
man looked at Christopher as if he were no more than an annoying flea. ‘Doubtless God must know where your son is, but I do not see him here. Do you?’
Christopher felt as if he was being played with, as a cat torments a mouse. ‘I have given you what is yours. Will you not give me what is mine?’
The man with the metal arm hesitated. He spoke rapidly in the Arabic tongue to Ahmed. When he had finished he looked again at Christopher. ‘Listen to me. You have become entangled in something you know nothing about. I can see you are obsessed by the thought that this map will show you where your son lies. But I tell you it does not. What’s more, it is a severe inconvenience for me to have to send it again.’
Christopher’s eyes were drawn to the man’s hands. With his real fingers he was playing with the levers in the wrist of the other hand. Like some kind of machine, the artificial fingers opened and then closed, with the thumb completing the fist. He smoothed the soft leather covering the mechanical hand as one might stroke a dog. Without looking at Christopher he spoke again.
‘If I hear gossip in this country or any other, about a map linked with this city, I will know it comes from you.’
Ahmed made a sound and the man paid him close attention as Ahmed signed to him with rapid movements of his fingers. He shook his head and turned to Christopher.
‘I cannot give you your son now, even if I wanted to, which I do not. So, choose another. Then you will embark for home. If you continue to be a nuisance I shall kill you, or Ahmed will, or perhaps we might share the pleasure.’
He raised his metal fist and tapped Christopher on the temple. ‘Now go, and be grateful you have your life.’
Christopher stumbled from the storeroom into the shop. His temple pained him badly where it had been knocked, but not as much as his heart. He made his way out into the dim jumble of passages that made up the great market with its domed roofs. Feeling tears threaten, he rubbed them away with his hand and instantly his eyes felt as if they were on fire.
The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan Page 16