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.
blur of white headgear, coarse cloaks and striped kaftáns, with the burning pitch shining red on their swords. Then the Janissary, scimitar at his side, fired off a hackbut, and throwing it down, charged steel flashing with the Ajémoghláns at his heels; and the raiders, seeing the economy of the luggage and the scarcity of well-plenished merchants, weighed risk against risk and, bringing their horses round, rearing, made off in the dark. The Janissary, remarkable so far for his silence, returned
voice of Pierre Gilles describing the glories of ancient Iconium: the citadel (into which they could not penetrate) and the mosque with its ranks of stolen Byzantine capitals (which they could not visit). There was a tekke on the east of the town where the founder of the Whirling Dervishes lay in his marble sarcophagus; but Marthe merely smiled when Jerott suggested, acidly, that she should pay her respects, and the quality of the smile, and the recollections it brought, had a predictable effect:
go near Lymond now in case I endanger him.’ ‘You are watched. Of course,’ said Gilles. ‘So you remain at the Embassy throughout all, fretting. You know, I take it, the expression, “Alterius non sit, qui suus esse potest?” What, for example, if the girl and the two children are rescued, leaving Marthe to suffer in the Seraglio in their place? Or do you agree this would be just punishment for her misdemeanours?’ ‘I know the expression,’ said Jerott. ‘At the moment I am another’s, and not my own.
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
no light, but room enough for his pallet, and at night he shared the room with the comite and one or two others who ignored but did not ill-treat him. Only, alone during the first day of the storm, he could not keep his feet, being so young, and, rolling and sliding, was tossed for a while between the stores and the walls until, wedged in a corner, he fell abruptly asleep. When he awoke he was still alone, and one of the crates, shaken loose, was knocking about in the dark. He had learned not to