The Prince of Lies

by Anne Lyle

  “Aye, captain.” Gabriel took Danziger by the elbow and steered him towards the door before he could make any more demands.

  “We sail at dawn tomorrow,” the carpenter said as they emerged onto the deck. He pulled free of Gabriel’s grasp and gestured towards the setting sun. “And we will light such a fire under the Spaniards’ tails that our praises will be sung from al-Jaza’ir to Mecca itself.”

  Gabriel left the Dutchman to his plans and went in search of Ned. His lover might grumble and find reasons not to go, but Gabriel knew he was as bored and frustrated as himself, deep down. Hennaq’s ransom would buy them a new life on land, away from the prying eyes of Youssef’s crew. Now that was an incentive Ned would not be able to resist.

  A few days later their borrowed xebec limped into the harbour of Mers-el-Kébir, or Mazalquivir as the Spanish named it. France now being at peace with Spain, their plan was to claim to be French smugglers who had narrowly escaped being taken by corsairs. That was one thing Ned did have experience of, though he didn’t care to repeat it. He and Mal had crossed swords with the bastards on their voyage to Venice. Well, Mal had. Ned had thwacked one in the bollocks and then slithered back down the ladder into the relative safety of the hold.

  “The Englishmen and I will go ashore,” Danziger told his crew. “I need two others to accompany us.”

  One of the sailors stepped forward. A tall, black-bearded fellow with crooked teeth and gold rings in his ears, he looked more like a corsair than a smuggler.

  “Raoul. Good.” Danziger waved him over.

  “Won’t he be a bit… conspicuous?” Ned murmured to Gabriel.

  Gabriel shrugged. “If the Spanish are looking at him, they won’t be looking at us.”

  Danziger selected another man, a scrawny fellow named Pierre whom Ned recalled was an expert climber, as much at home in the rigging as a bird in a tree.

  “Right,” Danziger said. “The rest of you keelscrapings will man the ship and be ready to have us out of here at a moment’s notice. Understand?”

  The carpenter-turned-captain led his four companions ashore, and they stalked along the quay in a loose cluster, avoiding eye contact with the fishermen sitting mending their nets. Ned kept his false hand tucked in the pocket of his loose breeches; he had covered up the metal with a linen glove, but that in itself was conspicuous in this hot climate. But it was either that or wear a hook, an ugly thing that reminded him too much of the monsters that had taken his hand. At least with the metal arm he could pretend it was his own flesh, albeit dead and unfeeling.

  The town of Mers-el-Kébir occupied the centre of a shallow crescent-shaped bay, embraced by two dark, tree-clad spurs of the distant mountains. Rows of Moorish-looking stone houses, thick-walled and flat-roofed, nestled in the narrow space between the steep mountain slopes and the sea. Near the centre a taller building thrust a spire towards the heavens, topped by a gilded cross that caught the harsh sunlight and flung it back into the eyes of the unwary. A mosque converted to a Christian church, by the look of it.

  The church was not the only building repurposed by its new owners. Judging by the barrels outside and the scent of wine wafting across the quay on the hot breeze, several of the houses along the seafront had been converted to taverns. Ned’s mouth watered at the prospect of a cup of good canary, or indeed any kind of wine at all. Before they could enter, however, their path was blocked by a squad of half-a-dozen Spanish soldiers. The Spaniards questioned Danziger at length and looked his companions over, suspicious that they had lost their cargo but not been taken prisoner by the corsairs. At last, however, the soldiers let them go, recommending a shipwright who could assist with repairs but warning them not to stay in Mazalquivir overlong. Danziger assured them very sincerely that he would not.

  “So what now?” Ned whispered as they followed Danziger into the tavern. “How are we to find Hennaq?”

  “I don’t know,” Gabriel replied. “How did Mal find the one he rescued in Corsica?”

  “How do you think?” Ned rolled his eyes.

  “I thought it was the Venetian courtesan who taught him magic.”

  “She taught him a few extra tricks, all right, and not just magic.” Ned winked. “But I reckon he had a few of his own to begin with. If he and Sandy really do share a soul…”

  “That doesn’t help us, though, does it? We neither of us have a drop of skrayling blood between us.”

  “We’ll just have to use our God-given wits.”

  Ned thought he heard Gabriel mutter “Then God help us” under his breath. He elbowed his lover in the ribs.

  “Hush!” Gabriel whispered. “We’re supposed to not be attracting attention, remember?”

  The tavern was blissfully cool and shady after the sunlit quay. Ned sank down on a bench and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a grimy neckerchief. A few moments later Gabriel pushed a cup of wine across the tabletop. Ned took a gulp and sighed with contentment as the sweet burn of alcohol spread through his limbs.

  “It’s hardly worth savouring,” Gabriel said, pulling a face as he sipped his own drink.

  “Don’t care. Christ’s balls, I’d rather be back in the Marshalsea than in this Godforsaken place.”

  “Taisez-vous!” Danziger glared at them. Of course. They were supposed to be masquerading as Frenchmen.

  Ned spent the rest of the afternoon in grim silence, curled around the cup of sour wine like a miser around his box of gold angels. The rest of the crew chattered away in French, even Gabriel occasionally making a comment in that same language. For all his complaining the actor seemed almost at home here, and Ned couldn’t help wondering about his lover’s adventures in the Mediterranean before they were reunited in Venice. At first he had been too happy to ask questions, and afterwards… With his good hand he rubbed the junction between the stump of his right arm and the base of the brass replacement.

  “Messieurs?”

  Ned looked up to see Danziger leaning over their end of the table.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Gabriel replied.

  Danziger muttered something, too quietly for Ned to make out even those few words he knew. Gabriel nodded and said something that sounded like agreement. When the captain returned to his seat, Gabriel leaned across the table.

  “Hennaq is in the fortress, as we feared.”

  Ned cursed under his breath. “What do we do?”

  “Danziger wants to stay the night here, try to find out more. If he can’t come up with a plan, we abandon the attempt and sail back to al-Jaza’ir.” Gabriel sighed and slumped down in his seat.

  “He has a point. We can hardly storm the fortress with five men.”

  “Don’t you want to go home to England?”

  “Of course. But we have to survive this madcap venture first.”

  Gabriel smiled. “I thought you were the one with the Devil’s own luck?”

  “My luck ran out in Venice, remember.”

  “You’re alive. I’d call that luck enough.”

  Ned shrugged. Gabriel reached out a hand across the table.

  “Don’t you dare get yourself killed, or you’ll have me to face.”

  “I don’t think they allow angels into Hell. Not since Lucifer.”

  Gabriel smiled sadly. “I don’t think either of us gets a choice.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  He was back at the theatre, hammering on the tiring-house door as the other actors pressed at his back. Smoke seared his throat. Someone was screaming–

  Gabriel jerked awake. Another low rumble. Just a thunderstorm, he told himself. Go back to sleep.

  A moment later the ground shook. A crack of breaking timbers, followed by the scrape and whisper of falling roof-tiles that smashed on the ground below. Not thunder; cannon fire. He rolled over on the thin mattress and shook Ned awake.

  “Get up! The town is under fire!”

  Ned blinked at him. “What?”

  “The Pasha’s fleet, I’m guessing, come to rescue Hennaq.”


  They snatched up their few belongings – the knives and purses they’d kept under their pillows – and joined the other men pushing and jostling their way down the inn stairs to the common room. Gabriel suppressed a yelp as the rough sole of someone’s boot scraped the back of his bare calf, and prayed none of them would fall in the press and be crushed to death.

  At last they emerged into the common room and the pressure eased as the men dispersed.

  “Which way?” Ned panted.

  “Front door,” Gabriel replied. “I think I saw Danziger heading that way.”

  They ran out onto the quayside. Dawn was breaking, and against the rose-gold light they could make out a line of galleys, their sails reefed, spanning the bay. The cannons were silent, waiting, but perhaps they would not remain so for long.

  “I thought they weren’t supposed to get here until the day after tomorrow,” Gabriel said to Danziger, who was likewise staring into the sunrise.

  “Evidently Amin was more persuasive than we expected,” the Dutchman said quietly.

  Someone pushed past them, running northwards towards the fort that stood on an arrowhead-shaped promontory at the northern end of the bay.

  “Come on, this is our chance!” Ned tugged at Gabriel’s sleeve.

  “What?” He could hardly drag his eyes away from the advancing ships.

  “Everyone’s fleeing to the fort. This is our chance to get inside, find Hennaq.”

  “You are right,” Danziger said. “Raoul! Pierre! With me!”

  Gabriel turned away and hurried after Ned, trying not to lose him in the throng which grew thicker the nearer they came to the red-walled fort.

  “You think this will work?” he muttered in Ned’s ear as they halted about fifty yards from the gate, squeezed between a heavily laden mule and a man carrying a child on his shoulders.

  Ned craned his neck round. “You have a better idea? Besides, we can hardly sail away with that lot blockading the port. Our crew are all Christians; that was part of Danziger’s cunning plan, after all.”

  Gabriel’s retort was cut off by a blare of trumpets from the gate. One of the guards shouted something in Spanish. He went on at great length; Gabriel could only make out a word here and there, but it sounded like regulations on who would be allowed inside the fort. His heart sank.

  A tap on his shoulder made him start. He turned to see Danziger behind him. Their young captain grinned and rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers. Gabriel grinned back. Money could always be relied on to get around the rules.

  It took them the best part of an hour to get inside the fort, and by then the chill of morning was giving way to the oppressive heat of another Moroccan day. Gabriel’s throat was as dry as the desert and the stink of humans and animals crammed together in the hot sun threatened to make him pass out, but he shuffled along patiently, taking comfort from Ned’s closeness. He daren’t reach out for his lover’s hand in case he found someone else’s, but just seeing him there was enough.

  At last they stumbled into the shade of the gateway and Danziger spoke with the guard, pointing out his crew with one hand whilst slipping coins to the man with the other. The guard waved them through and they found themselves in the outer ward, a narrow low-walled enclosure against the western end of the fortress. The southern half, closest to the harbour, had been fenced off and all the townsfolk’s livestock was being herded inside: sheep, goats, donkeys, mules and pigs mingling together, all competing to see who could make the most noise. Outside the corral, families sat huddled around their belongings, women and children weeping or simply blank-faced in terror. They knew they were the intruders here, but perhaps they had not expected the Moors to reclaim the port just yet.

  The fort’s southernmost cannons were firing now, keeping the Pasha’s fleet from getting any closer. Between the constant barrage and the noise of the refugees, Gabriel felt like he was already in Hell. Still, he followed Ned and Danziger across the outer ward as far as they were allowed, which was still some distance from the gate into the main fortress. The captain paused and gathered them all round.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said in French, “we have penetrated the enemy’s initial defences. I suggest we wait for nightfall, then try to advance further.”

  “What if the Moors capture the town first?” Gabriel asked.

  Danziger shrugged. “We will have to take that chance. God is on our side, is he not?”

  The day dragged by in a haze of thirst and boredom. The Spanish soldiers came round with baskets of bread at noon, but with only a single jug of water between the five of them and no prospect of getting more, Ned could barely choke down his share of the half-stale loaf. At least as the afternoon wore on the sun began to sink below the western wall, throwing long shadows across the outer ward.

  “I’ve been watching the guards,” Gabriel said softly, leaning his shoulder against Ned’s. “Most of them seem to be on the walls and the outer gatehouse; they can’t spare many for the refugees or the inner gate, so those men are on longer shifts.”

  “So they’ll be weary, and bored,” Ned replied.

  “Exactly.”

  “So we wait until dusk, when their sight is dimmest; that’s a trick Mal taught me.”

  “And when their thoughts, and those of the refugees, are turning to supper.”

  “Still, how do we get through the gate?”

  “I think we’ll need a diversion.” Gabriel beckoned Danziger over. “Can you ask Pierre and Raoul to start a fight on the other side of the ward? Perhaps when the soldiers next come round with food.”

  Danziger nodded and grinned. “I’m sure they would be happy to have something to do.”

  They didn’t have long to wait. The scent of onions and herbs drifted across the ward as a pair of soldiers carried out a cauldron slung on a couple of pole-arms balanced across their shoulders. The refugees began to get to their feet and close in on the food. Danziger nodded to his men, who pushed their way through the crowd.

  At this distance Ned couldn’t see who threw the first punch, but soon there was shouting from the direction of the cauldron and the crowd shifted and swirled like a swarm of flies disturbed from a dungheap. He exchanged glances with Gabriel. It was now or never.

  The guards on the inner gatehouse were already moving forwards to assist in subduing the riot. Ned, Gabriel and Danziger halted in the shadows until they were out of the guards’ line of sight, then slipped through the gate.

  “What if someone asks us who we are and where we’re going?” Ned whispered.

  “We kill them,” Danziger growled. “Now quiet!”

  The vast inner ward – twice as long as the entire plot of ground occupied by Tower of London but somewhat narrower – stretched before them, with, to either side of the gateway, a large fortress with crenelated walls. Smaller towers punctuated the curtain wall at intervals, and newer-looking outbuildings were ranged across the open space. A large pen held horses rather than livestock for eating, though Ned had heard enough of Mal’s stories about sieges to know that they would serve double duty if need be. Christ forfend it should come to that, though.

  “Look!” Gabriel pointed to an outbuilding from which men were emerging at intervals with baskets of bread and covered pots. Some went towards the main fortress to their left, overlooking the harbour, others into the low triangular tower to their right. “Looks like it’s supper time for the garrison.”

  “I wish it were my supper time as well,” Ned muttered under his breath. Thankfully the others didn’t hear him.

  “Which do we choose?” Gabriel asked. “Hennaq could be anywhere.”

  “If I were expecting an attack from the harbour,” Danziger said, “I’d put my prize prisoner as far away as possible. I say we try the north tower.”

  Gabriel ducked into the empty guardroom and emerged a few moments later with a basket covered in a napkin, a kettle and a couple of wine bottles.

  “With any luck no one will notice they’re mo
stly empty,” he said, handing them round. “Come on, before the guards get back.”

  Danziger led the way, striding confidently towards the north tower as if he belonged there. Ned hefted the empty basket onto his shoulder and followed. This was all going a little too easily for his liking.

  It was hard to make anything out inside the fortress; no torches burned anywhere, and the light was fading fast. Daylight. Ned looked up. The fortress was open to the sky.

  “You know,” Gabriel hissed, pressing his back against the stonework, “I don’t think there’s a building in here at all. Not like in an English castle. It’s just a series of angled walls for the defenders to man, and stairs up to the wall-walk.”

  “So where’s Hennaq?” Ned whispered back.

  “I don’t know. In one of those outbuildings, perhaps?”

  Ned sighed. “I knew this was going too well. Which outbuilding? There must be at least a dozen just on this side of the ward.”

  “I think we can ignore the kitchens. And the open one that looks like a smithy.”

  Danziger re-joined them. “We should leave the ‘supper’ here; it’ll look strange if we carry it out again.”

  Ned set down his basket. His stomach ached with more than hunger, clenched around a tight knot of fear.

  “So we just wander around the buildings until we get arrested?”

  “It’s nearly dark. I say we wait here a while longer, then make our move. Find the skrayling, break him out and be gone before dawn.”

  “How? We can hardly smuggle him out through that lot,” Ned said, pointing back towards the gatehouse.

  “We’ll have to climb over the walls.”

  “In the dark? You are completely insane, you know that?”

  “So I’m told.” Danziger showed his teeth in what could charitably be called a smile. “I like to think I’m just a little bolder than most men. It gives me the element of surprise.”

  Ned shook his head. They would be caught and executed as spies, he was sure of it.