Pawn in Frankincense: Fourth in the Legendary Lymond Chronicles
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For the first time Dunnett's Lymond Chronicles are available in the United States in quality paperback editions.
Pawn in Frankincense is the fourth in the legendary Lymond Chronicles. Somewhere within the bejeweled labyrinth of the Ottoman empire, a child is hidden. Now his father, Francis Crawford of Lymond, soldier of fortune and the exiled heir of Scottish nobility, is searching for him while ostensibly engaged on a mission to the Turkish Sultan. At stake is a pawn in a cutthroat game whose gambits include treason, enslavement, and murder. With a Foreword by the author.
procession of tax-payers began to move forward; the little weights clinked in the scales as the aspers were poured out for weighing. ‘The child you mention,’ said the Commissar briefly, ‘came from the harem of Dragut Rais at Algiers. I fear thou hast mistaken his origins. He is not for sale. You may have the aid of my Odabassy to find your way without harm out of the city. Allâh be with thee.’ The gold thrust into her hand, she was dismissed. Philippa looked round wildly. Míkál had gone. The
partridges. And before him, swaying and graceful, the women walked to and fro, smiling. Quite insensibly, Jerott quickened his pace. The house of the Syrian woman was tall and wreathed in vine-leaves. A discreet notice, in Greek and in Turkish, directed custom to the garden gate at the back. Jerott, reading it, was aware of a burst of laughter from the alley behind him, but was unaware until he turned and found himself surrounded that the laughter was directed against himself. The men were all,
of his entry, but slid in one bright frosty day and made his way to two or three people he had known, long ago, in his chosen profession. Under Suleiman the Magnificent there was no central menagerie: only a collection of beasts kept in temporary confinement in the empty rooms of the half-ruined building called Constantine’s Palace, against the east city wall. The rest were maintained, for the Sultan’s amusement, in the courtyards and sunken arcades of the old Royal Palace, below the walls of the
letter-writers and the sellers of sherbet. Hooded and unrecognizable in the long Turkish robes they all wore outside the Embassy, Jerott sat crosslegged under the trees in the Beyazit garden as the lamps lit in the mosque, and the turbaned heads of the tombstones on their narrow white shoulders peopled the grass with queer shadows, and watched the timber house with the aviary under the walls, its lights streaming over the ground. Unlike the other houses beside it, the house of Názik came to life
turning to the Kislar Agha, said only, ‘May we have the Sultana’s ruling?’ And the Sultana’s articulate voice in return said briefly, ‘The move is permitted.’ So Khaireddin, who had been a Pawn, became a Knight, and Gaultier, suddenly threatened, had to be moved, allowing Gabriel’s Queen to put Lymond in check, from which he could escape in only one direction. It cleared the way, as Gabriel intended, for the advance of the other Pawn, Kuzúm. Jerott said, ‘Francis…’ and then stopped, for there