Ingvar hesitated. There might well be other Skandian speakers in the dungeon and he didn’t want to reveal too much detail. ‘Sometime in the next few days,’ he said vaguely. ‘Just be quiet and be ready to follow my lead when the time comes.’
Beside him, Bernardo stirred groggily, his breathing snuffling wetly through his broken, flattened nose. Ingvar regarded him for a few seconds then, remembering the hours of taunting and goading that he had endured, he jabbed his elbow into the man’s ribs.
Hard.
Gilan strung his longbow, then slung it diagonally over his back, so that it stretched from just above his left shoulder to the back of his right boot. Slinging it at an angle like that allowed him to fit it under the voluminous white robes, with only a small section of the upper end protruding above his shoulder and making a slight hump under the robe – and even that was hidden by the tail of his kheffiyeh.
He had adapted his quiver – normally slung over his shoulder – to hang from his belt. He clipped it into place now and pulled the robe around him. Aside from that one small peak at his shoulder, there was no sign that he was carrying a longbow.
He wore his sword, of course, in a scabbard that hung from his waistbelt. The peculiar double knife scabbard, holding a saxe knife and a smaller throwing knife, balanced the weight of the sword on the opposite side.
‘Nearly time to be off,’ he said quietly.
Hal nodded. He looked around to where Lydia was donning her robe and kheffiyeh. She had her quiver of atlatl darts concealed under the robe, hanging diagonally across her back like Gilan’s bow. But they were shorter than the bow and the robe hid them completely.
She glanced up, caught Hal’s eye and nodded. Since their heated discussion the day before, relations between the two of them had returned to normal. Hal knew she was too proud to ever apologise to him or admit that she was in the wrong. But she had gone out of her way to be pleasant and friendly in a dozen small ways, doing small favours for him or sharing the occasional joke – usually at her own expense. He smiled at her now. He was glad they were back on speaking terms – particularly with both of them heading off into uncertain and dangerous situations. He realised that there was a possibility that they might never see each other again and he would have hated the bad blood between them to have continued.
He turned back to Gilan. ‘What time are you heading out?’
‘Around the eleventh hour. That’ll give us time to get into the market, scout out a good place to start the fire and have it well and truly burning by a quarter hour to two. We’ll try to make it as far from the slave market as possible. That way, we’ll draw the dooryeh further away from you and leave you with a free hand.’
Hal nodded several times. He was nervous and tense. His stomach was set in tight knots and his mouth was dry.
It wasn’t fear, he knew. Once the action started, once things were under way, he would be fine. But it was the waiting that always got to him. The hours beforehand, thinking over the plan, trying to foresee problems – and there would always be problems – and plan for every eventuality.
He wished he were going with Gilan and Lydia. At least then he’d be doing something, and not having to put up with this seemingly interminable waiting.
The bell in the city watch tower clanged suddenly. All eyes on the ship instantly turned in the direction of the tower, even though they couldn’t actually see it from deck level. Unconsciously, Hal’s lips moved as he counted the clangs, mouthing the numbers from one to eleven.
The bell sounded out each hour, then sounded a single stroke to mark the quarter hours.
‘We’ll be going,’ Gilan said. He glanced at Lydia. ‘Ready?’
She nodded, making a final check of her belt to be sure her atlatl and her long dirk were both in place. Gilan and Hal shook hands, then Lydia embraced him quickly.
The rest of the crew gathered round to farewell them, murmuring good wishes as the two white-robed figures prepared to climb up onto the wharf.
‘Remember,’ Hal said, ‘once you’ve got the fire going, head straight back here. Don’t come looking for us. Just get back here and be ready to sail when we arrive.’
‘Got it,’ Gilan said. He didn’t see any need to point out that Hal had given them those instructions at least ten times during the day. The young skipper was anxious, he realised. A burly figure loomed up beside them and he turned to shake hands with Thorn, doing so left-handed.
‘Mind yourself in that guardroom,’ Gilan told him.
Thorn grinned cheerfully. He never had any stomach butterflies before a fight.
‘I plan to be subtle,’ he said.
Gilan looked at him, his head tilted curiously. ‘How’s that?’
‘Once we go through that door, I’ll bash anything that moves. And if they don’t move, Stig will bash them.’
‘You have a strange concept of subtle,’ Gilan said.
Thorn’s grin grew wider. ‘So I’ve been told.’ Then he became serious. ‘Take care out there. And take care of the girl too. Sometimes, she can be a little impulsive.’
Being Thorn, he made no effort to lower his voice when he added the second instruction. Lydia’s temper flared. ‘Impulsive! I’ll give you impulsive, old man!’
‘See what I mean?’ Thorn said to Gilan.
Gilan grinned back. ‘I don’t think Lydia needs anyone to look after her.’
‘Maybe not. But do it anyway,’ Thorn told him. ‘Or you’ll answer to me.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Gilan said. Thorn was constantly teasing and infuriating Lydia. It was obvious, however, that he felt a strong regard for her – obvious to everyone but Lydia.
‘Are we going or not?’ she said impatiently.
Gilan winked at Thorn and turned away. ‘We’re going,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this done, shall we?’
He clambered up onto the wharf, Lydia close on his heels. They looked back to the ship, raised their arms in farewell, then turned and hurried off into the narrow entrance of an alley leading away from the waterfront.
As they travelled further into the city, the narrow, winding streets that took them under dark archways and past silent doorways gave way to wider thoroughfares that were well lit and bustling with noise and people. Taverns and eating houses predominated here. There were stalls as well, selling all kinds of merchandise, and lit by flaring oil lamps to show off their goods.
Lydia and Gilan, walking in single file with Gilan leading the way, threaded a path through the slow moving tide of eaters, drinkers and shoppers. On all sides, the spruikers for restaurants and bars called out to them, promising the tastiest food, the finest wine and ale and the most convivial company in the city. They ignored all these entreaties and pressed on.
Gradually, the streets became darker and quieter again, as they reached a residential area of the city. Here the walls were high and windowless, maintaining the privacy of those inside. The roofs were flat and covered with awnings, so that the residents could relax and enjoy the evening breeze high above the streets. As they walked quickly past the darkened fronts of the houses, through the occasional pool of light thrown by an oil light mounted high on the plastered walls, Lydia had the uncomfortable and unwelcome feeling that dozens of eyes were watching her from above.
Her softly shod feet made little noise on the uneven cobbles. To Lydia, however, each footfall sounded deafening. And she was convinced that anyone seeing them as they hurried along would immediately divine their purpose and raise the alarm.
They passed through a small square where a fountain splashed invitingly and trees were set about benches to provide shelter during the heat of day. By night, they provided deep shadows and Lydia’s overworked imagination peopled those shadows with enemies. Lydia didn’t like cities – particularly a city as big and extensive as Socorro. She had grown up spending most of her time in the forests and fields around her home town. She knew the sounds of a forest and could identify potential danger easily. In a large city like this,
with its tortuous alleyways, high walls and shadowy archways, every noise she heard and every movement she saw was enough to set her teeth on edge.
Even the pleasant splashing of the fountain bothered her. It could be masking other sounds, less benevolent.
She glanced sideways at Gilan. As the crowds died away, she moved up to walk beside him. She wondered whether he was feeling the same nervous tension that she was. But the hanging sides of the kheffiyeh masked his face.
‘Not long now,’ he said. His voice was calm and encouraging, as if he had sensed her doubts. He turned and smiled at her, and she became aware that she had been gripping the handle of her dirk beneath her cloak in an iron grasp. Lydia relaxed her fingers as she and Gilan plunged through another archway, followed a curving, narrow alley, then emerged into the clear square that faced the gold market.
The marketplace itself loomed above them, a dark mass pierced only by a gateway opposite where yellow light shone, spilling out onto the cobblestones of the square.
They had travelled via a circuitous route that brought them to the south-western gate – the one furthest removed from the neighbouring slave market. Fortuitously, it was a gate by which they hadn’t previously accessed the gold souk. That way, there was less chance of encountering a guard they might have seen previously, one who might remember them and ask awkward questions.
Even at this late hour, there was a crowd milling outside the gate, waiting to gain entrance. As they crossed the square, Gilan pulled one of the tails of his kheffiyeh across his face to obscure part of it. He knew that if he covered his face completely, it would only arouse suspicion. But the partial concealment was nearly as effective, and far less noticeable or memorable. Lydia took her cue from him, doing likewise.
They tagged onto the end of the queue waiting to enter, moving slowly forward. Before long, they were no longer the end of the queue, as other keen traders joined on behind them. On this occasion, the guard seemed to be merely going through the motions of checking people as they entered. There was little talk and each group or individual received only the most perfunctory inspection before being waved through.
Lydia and Gilan were no different. The yawning guard glanced quickly at them, then waved them forward with a complete show of indifference.
As they stepped through the gateway, then went through an arched entrance, the darkness disappeared in a blaze of lantern and candle light reflecting off the gold and brass displays that lined the streets. The smell of grilling meat filled the air and Lydia’s stomach rumbled. She realised she hadn’t eaten since the afternoon. Gilan looked at her, amused.
‘I take it from that thunderous noise that you’re feeling peckish?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘Forget pecking. Put some food in front of me and I’ll tear it to pieces.’
‘Might not be a bad idea to do that while we get our bearings,’ he said. They were in a part of the market they hadn’t visited before and, while there was nothing essentially different from the parts they had already seen, they could use a little time to check out the surroundings and pick a likely place where they could start their diversion.
He led the way to one of the many tea houses in the market and they sat at a small table on spindly chairs. The waiter brought them mint tea, grilled mutton still sizzling on skewers, and flat bread with a salad of chopped parsley and mint.
They ate and drank, and the Ranger’s eyes were never still, darting from one stall to another, from one side street to another as he studied the lay of the land. Once again, they had selected a spot at the top of a natural hill, where the streets and side alleys fell away on all sides. Finally, he casually pointed to a spot halfway down and on their left, at the junction of the main street and a narrow alley.
‘That looks like the place,’ he said. ‘Finish your tea and we’ll take a closer look.’
The rescue party left an hour after Gilan and Lydia had slipped away to the gold souk.
Hal spent the intervening time pacing the deck, from bow to stern and back again. From time to time, he would stop and inspect the work being carried out by Ulf, Wulf, Edvin and Stefan. They had the halyard and stays rigged and ready and were now refitting the triangular sails to the long, slender yardarms.
At one stage, Stig began to rise to his feet as Hal paced past him. Thorn laid his left arm on Stig’s forearm. ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked, although he knew full well.
Stig glanced after his friend, pacing with his head down. ‘Thought I’d keep him company.’
Thorn shook his head. ‘He doesn’t need company right now. He needs to be alone.’
Stig studied Hal more closely as he turned and began to pace his way forward once more. He could see the frown of concentration creasing his friend’s forehead, the set of his mouth and the distant look in his eyes and he realised Thorn was right. He sat down and began honing the blade of his axe once more. The axe was already sharp enough to shave the hairs on his forearm, but all Skandians knew an axe could never be too sharp.
For his part, Thorn had already strapped on the fearsome club-hand that Hal had made for him. In addition, he was wearing a sword on his right hip and his saxe in a scabbard on his left. A small, bowl-shaped metal shield lay on the deck beside him.
Jesper, the fourth member of the raiding party, and in some ways the most important, sat in the well where the rowing benches were situated. He had his lock-picking wallet open before him, and a selection of half a dozen old and new padlocks arranged on the bench. Some he had had for years. Others he had bought as recently as that afternoon in the bazaar.
Now, as he sat, humming quietly to himself, he would pick up a padlock at random, inspect it quickly, then select the correct lock-pick from his kit and proceed to open the lock. The succession of smooth clicks were audible throughout the ship as he practised his craft. It was a strangely soothing sound. The locks were well oiled and well maintained and it took only seconds for him to manipulate the pick in each of them and have the jaws spring open.
Finally, satisfied that his fingers were sufficiently nimble and sensitive enough to assess the resistance of each lock as he manipulated it, he packed the padlocks away, rolled his lock-picks back into the canvas wallet, and slung it around his neck, over his shoulder.
In the distance, the watch tower bell chimed, its peals ringing steadily out over the city. As before, Hal’s lips moved unconsciously as he counted the strokes, although once the bell had sounded twice, indicating that it wasn’t sounding a quarter-hour signal, it was inevitable what the end result would be.
‘Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve,’ he said quietly.
His sword belt was leaning against the steering platform and he moved towards it now, swinging it round his waist and buckling it on in a smooth movement borne of long practice. He donned his white robe and kheffiyeh then, as an afterthought, shoved his Heron watch cap through his belt. Once they were at the slave market, they planned to abandon the white cloaks – they would only stand out in the darkness. When that happened, he was going to lose the kheffiyeh as well, and don the watch cap – the Herons’ uniform headgear. He noticed the other three picking up their caps and shoving them inside jackets or through belts. Obviously, everyone had the same idea.
Kloof had watched him donning the sword belt and cloak. Now she reared up on her hind legs, straining against the length of rope that kept her tethered to the mast. He stepped to her and ruffled her ears as she whined expectantly.
‘Not tonight, girl,’ he said. ‘You stay here and keep an eye on Ulf and Wulf.’
The twins grinned up at him and Kloof subsided, disappointment evident in every line of her body. She let her front legs slide out from under her on the decking and slumped down on her belly, chin resting on her paws, her eyes following Hal’s every move.
‘Keep her tied up,’ he said to Edvin. ‘She’s liable to take off after me and we won’t have time to find her later.’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ Edvin said. ‘Go
od luck, Hal.’
‘Take care, boys!’ Ulf called softly.
‘Brain a dooryeh for me, Thorn,’ Wulf added.
The raiding party climbed up the short boarding ladder to the wharf.
‘Who’s got the grapnel?’ Hal asked. His voice seemed unnaturally loud.
Thorn tapped his shoulder. ‘It’s here.’
They planned to scale the high wooden wall of the arena, at a point level with the office and the slave pen. For that purpose, Thorn was carrying a coil of light, strong rope, with a grappling hook attached to one end. They would throw the hook over the wall, heave on it until it set, then swarm up the rope to gain entrance.
‘Jes, do you have the booster?’ he asked.
Jesper nodded and held up a metre-long piece of wood – the butt of an old oar. They would use it to help get over the wall.
Hal paused for a moment, taking a quick inventory. They had their weapons and the grapnel. And Jesper had his lock-picks. There was nothing else they needed, other than a decent measure of good luck, he thought grimly.
‘Let’s go then,’ he said.
The four raiders crouched in the shadows. Above them, the massive wall of the slave market blocked out the night sky. Hal looked at Thorn, standing ready with the rope and grapnel Jesper had handed him. ‘Let it go,’ he said.
Thorn had the coil of rope looped over his club-hand. He held the end, with the triple-hooked grapnel in place, in his left, letting it swing easily back and forth. The hooks were wound with canvas to reduce the sound they would make when the grapnel hit the timber benches inside the arena.
Now Thorn stepped away from the wall, swung the weighted line back and forth a few times, and cast it underhand up the wall.
It was a task he had performed hundreds of times in his career as a raider, so it was not surprising that his cast was perfect. The grapnel sailed upwards, trailing the length of knotted rope behind it. As it cleared the lip of the wall, it lost momentum and began to fall back. But Thorn had cast it on an angle, so that it was slightly inside the lip of the wall. There was a dull thud as it made contact with the timber, then Thorn pulled the rope tight, setting the padded hook against the edge of the wall before it could rattle and clatter across the benches.
Slaves of Socorro Page 27
