‘Where in the name of Perlins and Gertz did he spring from?’ Jesper said, eyeing the previously unnoticed door through which Thorn’s attacker had sprung.
Thorn wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘I’d say that’s the privy,’ he said. ‘For Orlog’s sake, someone shut that door.’
Stig obliged while Hal gestured for Jesper to open the door leading to the slave pen.
‘Now that they’re all accounted for, let’s do what we came to do,’ Hal said.
Jesper had the door unbolted in a second and they filed through.
As they entered the stone-lined passageway that led to the cell, they heard the sound of bodies stirring and an undertone of whispered comment. They also noticed the strong smell of nearly seventy unwashed bodies and the unpleasant odour of overfull latrine buckets.
Hal was second in line after Jesper. There was no need for Stig and Thorn to lead the way now that all the guards were incapacitated. He turned back to Stig, who was bringing up the rear.
‘Pass me one of those lanterns, will you?’
Stig did so, and the extra light flooded the passageway, exposing the first few metres of the huge cell beyond the grille gate. Now the voices behind the gate were louder and more insistent as the prisoners realised that the newcomers weren’t the soldiers who had been guarding them for the past weeks. A dozen voices were raised, crying out to ask who they were and did they have any water, and demanding that they be set free.
Hal took the lantern from Stig’s hand and stepped closer to the grille.
‘Quiet!’ he shouted. As the noise continued, he repeated the order, even louder. Gradually, the hubbub of frantic voices died away and the slaves waited expectantly for his next words.
‘Ingvar!’ he called. ‘Are you there?’
‘I’m here, Hal,’ Ingvar’s deep voice replied from the gloomy interior. Peering in its direction, Hal saw a movement in the shadows at the rear of the room as Ingvar raised his hand.
‘Have you located the Araluans?’ Hal asked.
Jesper was moving to open the grille but Hal stopped him, saying in an aside, ‘Just wait till we see how things are here, Jesper.’
Jesper, who was stooped over to access the lock with his picks, looked up at him in surprise. Hal had a sudden premonition that there might be trouble with the other captives if he rescued only the Araluans.
‘We’re here, Captain,’ came a voice from the opposite side of the cell to where Ingvar was chained. ‘Your man says you’ve come to release us.’
Instantly, the chorus of voices broke out again, as the other slaves all shouted and pleaded to be released as well. Deciding it was safe to proceed, Hal motioned for Jesper to open the door. When he did, Hal stepped through into the cell, holding the lantern high to throw its light further. Stig and Thorn stood ready by the gate, in case he needed help.
As Mahmel had told them, the slaves were chained together in gangs of ten or twelve. They were shackled by one wrist to long chains that ran through iron rings set into the walls either side, leaving a narrow open space down the centre of the room. Presumably, the guards used this to feed the prisoners, or to take one gang from the cell without coming into the reach of the others. Hal moved in now, looking at the faces lining either side of the long, low-ceilinged room.
There was a wide mixture of racial types represented here. He saw swarthy Arridans, black-skinned tribesmen, and pale-skinned Gallicans. There were olive-skinned men and women from the half a dozen countries that bordered the Constant Sea.
They were all confined here, men and women alike, with no vestige of privacy between the genders. Perhaps, he thought, after losing your liberty and dignity, that was no longer an issue. Hands stretched out to him as he moved through the cell, and voices pleaded with him to be released, the chains rattling and clanking as the prisoners moved.
He saw Ingvar sitting quietly, chained to a group of prisoners. The big lad smiled as he saw the dim figure in the lantern light.
‘Is that you, Hal?’ he said. ‘I wondered when you might get here.’
First things first, Hal thought. He turned and called back to Jesper.
‘Jesper! Come and unlock Ingvar!’ He glanced curiously at the prisoner next to Ingvar. He was a big man with a black beard, and an ugly bruise that spread across his nose and cheek. He seemed intent on staying as far from Ingvar as possible.
As Jesper made his way down the central cleared area, the calls from the prisoners were renewed. They realised that this was the man who could set them free. Jesper reached the spot where Ingvar was sitting and moved towards him. Instantly, prisoners from either side moved to intercept him and Hal drew his sword, stepping in among them.
‘Get back!’ he warned. ‘We’ll get to you in good time!’
Perhaps it was the tone of command in his voice. Or perhaps it was the fact that, after weeks or even months of imprisonment, they were conditioned to obey orders, but they pulled back and allowed Jesper room to release Ingvar.
As Jesper unlocked the padlock, and ran the long chain back through the wrist cuffs of the slaves shackled to him, the others in the group rose to their feet and began to surge towards the open grille. Hal blocked their way, his sword raised so that the point was at chest level.
‘Stop!’ he said.
They eyed the gleaming blade doubtfully. Stig and Thorn advanced into the cell, shoulder to shoulder, blocking the narrow access way. Silence fell as the cries died away and the captives eyed these newcomers suspiciously.
‘Unchain the Araluans, Jesper,’ Hal ordered quietly. Ingvar, rubbing his wrist where the shackle had rubbed against it, showed him to the group of twelve Araluans shackled together on the opposite side of the room. Hal heard the rattle and clank of shackles falling free onto the stone floor. Again, a murmur ran through the room. He held the lantern high and raised his voice so that it carried to every corner of the cell.
‘Now look, I can release all of you. Or none of you, if that’s what you choose.’ A wary, expectant silence fell as he said the last words. He continued. ‘I’m taking these Araluans out of here on my ship.’
‘Take us all!’ shouted a swarthy man a few metres away, chained to a group who were obviously his countrymen. But Hal shook his head.
‘I don’t have room for you all,’ he said. ‘I barely have room for these twelve.’ He indicated the Araluans, who were now unchained. Jesper ushered them past him, towards the gate. Again, there were angry cries from those waiting to be released.
One of the men who had been chained with Ingvar stepped closer to Hal.
‘We could make you take us,’ he threatened. ‘How would you stop us?’
The man felt a large hand on his shirt, turning him away from Hal. As he turned, he found himself facing Ingvar, less than a metre away. ‘Do you want some of what Bernardo got?’ Ingvar asked quietly.
The man looked at the cowed figure of the bully, huddled against the wall, then looked back at Ingvar and saw the steely determination in his eyes. Hurriedly, he dropped his own gaze and shook his head.
‘No. No. Carry on,’ he muttered.
Ingvar nodded, then addressed the others nearby. ‘Anyone else have any silly questions?’
The newly released slaves muttered and shuffled their feet. Nobody wanted to contend with the massive Skandian. Hal made a mental note to ask Ingvar what had gone on in the dungeon. He realised that the bearded man’s injuries probably had nothing to do with the guards. But time was pressing and he didn’t have time to pursue the matter now.
‘I can’t take you with us,’ he repeated. ‘But if you want to try to make your own way, we’ll release you.’
Again, voices cried out for him to do this, but he held up his hand, the sword still in it.
‘I’ve got to warn you, the Socorrans might not take it too kindly if you try to escape. If they recapture you, you could be in a lot of trouble.’
‘We’ll take our chances.’ It was one of the black-skinned group from the south. He was
tall and well muscled and obviously a warrior. His group comprised eight men and four women. All of them looked fit and able to fight. Hal nodded to him.
‘If that’s your choice, we’ll let you go,’ he said. ‘But wait till we have everyone released. If a dozen of you run for it now, you’ll alert the guards. The chances will be better if everyone goes at once.’
The man considered what he had said and nodded briefly. It made sense. If fifty or sixty of them ran at once, the guards would have their hands full.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait. But get these blasted chains off us!’
Hal looked towards the entrance and saw the last of the Araluans passing through the gate. Hal and Stig mustered them through the guardroom. Jesper waited by the gate, awaiting instructions.
‘All right, Jes!’ Hal called. ‘Unlock any who want to go.’ He gestured to the man who had spoken. ‘Do this group first,’ he said, then spoke to the man in an undertone. ‘We’ll set your group free first. But you’ll have to help us control the others, in case someone decides to make a run for it.’
‘That’s agreed,’ the man said. He held out his wrists as Jesper hurried through the cell to where they stood. Again, the clicking sound of shackles being released echoed off the stone walls. Hal noted that Jesper had found a key that fitted the shackles and padlocks. Whether it was from his own kit or he had taken it from the guardroom, he had no idea. But it was certainly faster than using his lock-picks.
On Hal’s orders, he released those closest to the rear of the cell first, working his way back towards the gate. At least a third of those imprisoned declined the offer of release. They knew they would have little chance of escape once they made it out of Socorro itself and into the desert surrounding the city. Looking at the state of their clothes and their long, unkempt hair and grimy bodies, Hal surmised that they were the prisoners who had been held captive longest and whose spirits had been broken by their confinement. The newer captives still held some hope, and the idea of escape burned like a beacon for them.
They made their way back to the gate, with Jesper releasing those who wanted to go, and a growing crowd of liberated prisoners shuffling behind them in the dim light. Once they were in the guardroom at the base of the stairs, Hal turned to the southerner, who was still close to him.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Jimpani,’ the man replied.
‘Very well, Jimpani, here’s what we’re going to do. We go upstairs to the slave market office and wait there. The main gate is opposite, across the arena. My group will go first – any argument with that?’
Jimpani shook his head. ‘That’s fair. You got us out.’
‘All right. Hold the rest of them back here. Jesper will open the main gates. Odds are the guards quartered there are all busy fighting a fire in the gold market. But there may be a few left behind. We’ll deal with them if there are. Once we’re through the gate, the way’s open for the rest of you. Get across the arena as fast as you can and out the gate. Split up and head in whatever direction you want to. And good luck. I hope you make it home.’
He saw Jimpani’s teeth flash white in a fierce grin. ‘We’ll make it,’ he said confidently. ‘And thanks.’
‘My pleasure,’ Hal told him. Then he started up the stairs to the slave market office, followed by his four crewmen and the twelve Araluans. He heard the patter of dozens of feet on the stone steps behind him. A hand dropped onto his shoulder and he looked around into Ingvar’s eyes.
‘I knew you’d be back for me,’ the huge youth said.
Hal shrugged. ‘Couldn’t leave you here. I need someone to control Ulf and Wulf.’ He paused, then added in a more serious tone, ‘Now all we have to do is get back to the ship, and get out of here.’
Mahmel hurried through the near empty streets towards the gold souk. Now that he was at ground level, moving through the twisting narrow streets, he could no longer see the massive, sprawling building. But he could hear the shouts and the insistent clanging of the alarm bell.
After several minutes, he came to the western gate of the souk. There was a milling crowd outside. People were rushing this way and that, some carrying buckets and barrels of water, others laden down with the gold and jewellery they had planned to sell in the market. Obviously, Mahmel thought, they were merchants who had stripped their stalls bare before they escaped, taking their valuables with them so they wouldn’t be lost in the fire.
He sniffed the air. He could smell woodsmoke – and the more acrid smell of burning fabric – hessian and canvas.
There was a hubbub of voices around him – shouting, incoherent voices, some calling out orders, others seemingly just calling out, all of them adding to the confusion. The way to the western gate was blocked by a crowd three or four deep. Most of them didn’t seem to know where they were going or what they were doing. He turned to his two bodyguards and jerked a thumb at the crowd in front of him.
‘Clear a path,’ he said briefly.
The bodyguards didn’t hesitate. They drove forward into the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, shoving people aside, striking out with the thick, metal-shod staffs they carried, kicking and elbowing anyone who was slow to move. People shouted and cried out in pain. But as they turned angrily to confront those responsible for the sudden assault, they recognised the men’s uniforms and armour – and the turban of the smaller figure striding behind them. Mahmel’s green turban marked him as a senior administrator in the city’s hierarchy – the sort of person you didn’t antagonise if you were wise. Such men had vast power, long memories and short tempers. The wise move in this situation was to accept the blows and kicks and get out of the way in a hurry.
The guards on duty at the gate saw Mahmel and came to attention.
‘What’s going on here?’ he snapped.
The senior of the two cleared his throat nervously. He wasn’t used to talking to such an important figure.
‘A fire, sir. There’s a fire in the souk.’
‘I can see that, you imbecile!’ snapped Mahmel. He went to speak further but was drowned out by the clanging of the alarm bell, which had begun once more. He glared at the vacant-faced guard standing off to one side, who was tugging on the bell pull.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, then had to repeat the question in a louder voice. The bell ringer started out of his trancelike state, pausing momentarily.
‘Sounding the alarm, lord,’ he said.
‘I think that’s been taken care of by now,’ Mahmel said in an acid tone. He turned back to the first guard. ‘Are the dooryeh here?’
The man nodded. ‘Yes, lord. The men from the garrison, and the men from the slave market guardhouse as well. They’re all here. And the fire monitors.’
The fire monitors were the official fire brigade for the city. Mahmel stepped to one side to peer down the long main thoroughfare of the souk. There was plenty of smoke evident, but he could see no flames, no sign of fire leaping from one stall to the next.
‘Have they got it under control?’ he asked.
The guard hesitated. ‘I . . . don’t know, lord. I think maybe they have.’
‘Where did the fire start?’
‘Um . . . in the south-eastern quarter . . . I think.’
‘Then go and find out. And find out if it’s under control.’
‘Yes, lord. At once.’ The guard started to back away, nervously bobbing his head in a truncated attempt to bow.
‘RUN!’ shouted Mahmel and the man turned and ran, grasping at his helmet as it threatened to fall from his head. Mahmel turned to the man who had been mindlessly ringing the bell. His hand still grasped the rope bellcord, as if he were ready to start again, any minute.
‘As for you, do something useful. Come and take charge here at the gate,’ he ordered.
The man saluted nervously, then moved to take up a position by the table set across the gateway. Mahmel shook his head in disgust. Some of these men couldn’t think for themselves. He beckon
ed his senior bodyguard, who stepped forward, waiting for orders.
‘Find the commander of the dooryeh,’ Mahmel told him. ‘He’ll most likely be in the south-eastern quarter of the souk. Tell him to report to me here.’
‘Yes, lord.’ The bodyguard slapped his palm to his chest in salute, turned and ran into the smoky interior of the souk. Mahmel beckoned the other bodyguard forward.
‘See if you can find me a glass of tea,’ he said. ‘One of the tea houses must still be open.’
‘Yes, Lord Mahmel,’ the man replied and he hurried off into the souk as well.
All very well for you, the guard thought to himself. The souk’s on fire, people are panicking in all directions, and you expect me to find a tea house still serving.
It took him ten minutes and he was rewarded by an angry scowl from his master as he handed him the glass of hot mint tea. A few minutes later, the other bodyguard returned, accompanied by a colonel of the dooryeh. Close behind the colonel strode a corporal in a blue tunic. A signal horn hung from his belt. The colonel saw Mahmel sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair sipping his tea, noted the significance of the green turban and strode forward, coming to attention.
‘Colonel Bekara, lord. Commander of the gold market garrison.’
‘What’s been going on here, Colonel?’ Mahmel asked. Then, before the man could respond, he added sarcastically, ‘And don’t tell me there’s been a fire. I can see that. I want details. How did it start? Who was responsible? What damage has been done?’
The colonel paused, gathering his thoughts.
‘The fire was started by two foreigners, sir, in the south-east quarter. One of them distracted the merchants there while the other broke into a store room and lit the fire. Apparently, one of them was a woman. They were recognised. They were seen in the market yesterday.’
Slaves of Socorro Page 31
