Skiouros stared at his brother with nervous eyes.
"It's not that simple" he repeated.
"Go away." Lykaion turned his back and walked away towards the alley's entrance.
"They're not Greek!" blurted the younger brother urgently.
Lykaion paused, his head turning slightly.
"What?"
"What I mean to say is that one of them isn't Greek - the victims. He's a Turk!"
"What trouble are you in?" demanded Lykaion, turning back to him.
"I told you: it wasn't me. I only found them by accident. She's Greek - a whore. He's an Ottoman."
"A whore? Then it really isn't something to bother my orta with. Some merchant led by his dick gets himself knifed? Not my problem."
"I think he's a nobleman."
Again, the older brother had turned to leave, and again he turned back.
"He's a what?"
"He's certainly rich. And I think powerful too."
In a blur of motion, Lykaion was back across the alley and face to face with his brother, so close Skiouros could smell the spicy kofte of the morning breakfast on his breath.
"What do you know of nobles and money? The most money you've ever had was some poor merchant's daily takings?"
Scrambling in the pocket slit of his doublet, Skiouros brought a small object up in his clenched fist and opened the palm flat to reveal the signet ring. It took a moment for the older brother, staring intently into those wide eyes, to realise that an object was being displayed for him. Taking a step back, he looked down at his brother's hand.
"Where did you get that?
"From the dead Turk."
Lykaion's head snapped up to meet his brother's gaze again.
"You stole it from a corpse?" he demanded angrily.
"Not stole. I just needed something to identify him with. See? It's an expensive signet. He must be a noble."
Lykaion glared at him for a moment longer until his gaze dropped once more to the ring. Swiping it from his brother's hand, he lifted it and turned it in the dawn light to examine it more carefully. Squinting, he peered at the design on the flattened surface, a tense silence falling over the brother. The cold golden sunlight flashed and danced off the intricate script.
"If I could read Turkish..." Skiouros began.
"If you could read at all!" Lykaion snapped. "Now shut up and let me look."
"But you…"
"Shhh!"
Skiouros watched his brother uncertainly for a long moment.
"Subhan'Allah!" Lykaion exclaimed breathlessly. "What have you done?" Tightly gripping the ring in his right hand, his left lunged up, grasping his brother by the doublet's neckline, pushing him roughly against the wall.
"Nothing! I swear, Lykaion."
The older brother's eyes bored deep into Skiouros' and finally, against all expectations sensing no duplicity, he released his grip and stepped back.
"You found this on a body in the house of a Greek whore?"
"Yes brother. He was clearly a client. He was… naked when I found him."
"By the grace of the prophet, this is not good little brother."
"I didn't know you could read" Skiouros noted, apropos of nothing.
"Unimportant. What is important is this ring and the man who wore it. This is going to cause widespread ripples. I don't even know how I'll go about reporting it."
"Why? Who is he?"
"Specifically, I don't know. But the ring says enough on its own: he's a vizier - one of the Sultan's close advisors."
Skiouros felt his blood run cold, images racing through his mind in quick succession: a naked bloodied corpse; a dismembered woman; an old Jew wanting nothing to do with the matter; a Romani witch telling him no good would come of it; the accusing glare of an ancient God; and back to the blood… so much blood.
"Perhaps I was wrong, Lykaion. I shouldn't have brought it to you; shouldn't even have taken the ring. Maybe we should leave it well alone if he's that important? I could put the ring back?"
Lykaion snorted and turned away, stamping a few steps along the alley before turning back and displaying the ring in his hand.
"How can I leave it alone now that you've told me? You should have kept it to yourself. Now I have to look into it, whatever that might bring." He snarled as he moved closer again. "And if I have to look into this, be assured that you will be helping me and that any involvement you haven't told me about will soon come to light. Is there anything you want to tell me?"
Skiouros stared at his brother, fighting for control over his nerves and struggling with the urge to tell of his deeper connection. How could he do that, though?
"No. Nothing."
Lykaion narrowed his eyes disbelievingly. "Then let the truth come out later and on your shoulders be its weight. Where did you find the ring?"
"A house in Phanar. Not too far from here. Five or ten minutes' walk, perhaps."
"Take me there. I want to see it."
"Are you sure? It's not pretty. Cost me a night's sleep."
"Just take me there."
Skiouros paused for a moment and then left the alley, scurrying out into the main street, already thronged with people going about their ordinary lives. On any other day, the younger brother would scorn such folk for their unadventurous, dull existences. Today he found himself envying them. Lykaion thumped along the street behind him in his over-the-knee boots.
'What we must look like!' thought Skiouros. He, scruffy and unkempt with his newly 'acquired' and slightly stained burgundy-coloured doublet, being followed closely by a Janissary guard in full uniform with his ceremonial tailed-hat proudly erect and a warlike blade slung on his hip. It would appear almost like a prisoner escort.
Quickly they moved through the streets of Phanar to the church of Saint John where, trying not to meet the gaze of the disapproving God with his incongruous crucifix, Skiouros came to a halt.
"What?" asked his brother irritably.
"Best we go through the back door. When I left, I locked the front to keep the scene closed off."
"I can't wait for you to decide to tell me what you were doing in a whore's chambers in the first place" Lykaion grumbled sarcastically. "Take us to the back door, then."
Peering cautiously down the street, Skiouros continued on past the turning and around the church until he saw the narrow opening of the alley that ran down the back of the wooden housing. Even in the cold morning air and out of the sun, the stink of offal and faeces issued strongly from the opening. Lykaion shook his head.
"No way you're getting me in there in my good boots. You go open up the door. I'll wait at the front. Which house?"
"Is that a good idea?" Skiouros countered. "A Janissary at the door will certainly rouse comment,"
Lykaion shrugged. "Let them talk. I'll be reporting this as soon as I work out how best to go about it. Now, which house?"
Skiouros cleared his throat. "The one with the yellow columns."
Waving his brother off, the older of the two strode back out to the main street. As Skiouros disappeared into the shit-steeped alley in his ragged clothes and stolen doublet, Lykaion shook his head at the madness of it all. Taking his time and moving with the slow, deliberate pace of a man of authority, he made his way towards the front of the house Skiouros had named.
Whatever his younger brother had caught himself up in now, it was clearly a step up on his usual mischief, but despite the venom with which he'd spoken, Lykaion was fairly certain at heart of his brother's relative innocence. Clearly some dubious activity had led Skiouros to a whore's house, but the young man was a thief - not a killer. Try as he might, Lykaion just could not picture his brother up to his elbows in blood, murdering a man with cold purpose. It simply wasn't him.
Once more, and for the umpteenth time since they had set off from the red-painted church where they met for their latest argument, Lykaion found himself quailing on the inside at the idea of informing his superiors about this. It would have to be done
, and it would have to be dealt with by the Janissaries - initially, at least, before the Sultan was made aware. An ordinary soldier like Lykaion could hardly march up to the office of the agha and ask to see him, so everything would have to go through channels; the chain of command.
And that meant Hamza Bin Murad.
Lykaion's superior officer - the 'corbasi' of his orta - was not a patient or understanding man. Despite being the most senior of the commanders beneath the agha himself, it was commonly said that Bin Murad would never be chosen for high command due to his temper and his bloodthirsty tendencies. Lykaion had fallen foul of his commander half a dozen times in his past two years of full service, and had the lash marks from one particular occasion to remember it by.
No. It was not going to be a pleasant task appraising the corbasi Bin Murad of this incident. For a moment, Lykaion even considered dropping his brother into the whirlpool of the man's inevitable anger. Anything that might help deflect it.
Lykaion came to a halt outside the house with the yellow columns. Was it his imagination playing tricks on his senses, or could he truly smell the tang of blood emanating from the building?
The house looked ordinary but the longer Lykaion spent standing in the cold street and looking at it, the more he was starting to get the feeling that the building actively loomed. He was just considering turning and leaving when there was a quiet click and the front door of the house swung slowly open.
Skiouros appeared in the dark rectangle, his face a picture of uneasiness. As Lykaion stepped towards the entrance, he realised what it was that had drawn that look to his brother's normally optimistic and eager features. The smell was already appalling before he'd even crossed the threshold. Despite the chilly weather, the enclosed house had filled with the stink of blood, offal, and the other unspeakable products of a violent death. Reaching down, Lykaion undid the decorative brass buttons on his green wool jacket, hauling up the shirt beneath until he could just cover his nose and mouth with it.
Slightly better prepared, he stepped into the house.
"It appears undisturbed."
"There were signs" Skiouros admitted. "The killer had left a nice little trigger that was intended to burn down the house and all its evidence. I unset the trap and blew out the lamp."
Lykaion nodded his approval. "Lead on."
Skiouros crossed the room, ignoring the two downstairs doors, one of which stood open allowing a cleansing draft to blow through, and began to climb the stairs slowly and carefully. Lykaion followed on, noting the steady increase in the potency of the smell. By the time they turned the corner and emerged at the top it was almost too much to bear, the air cloying and sickly-thick; nearly unbreathable.
Emerging into the room, the young Janissary soldier glanced around with an eye that might appear calm to an outsider. He certainly had no wish to show any sort of weakness in front of his brother. But the smell…
He gagged a little, and covered up the reaction by moving swiftly across to the bed, pulling the shirt up a little more, for all the use it was. It was like trying to keep out the sea with a cotton kerchief.
"I've seen him before" he announced, trying to keep the sickly swallowing noise out of his voice. "When I've done duty at Topkapi, he's been in and out. One of the viziers, and a fairly prominent one, judging by his regular visits to the Sultan." He bent over, his constant gulping to halt the gag reflex barely concealed beneath his wrenched-up shirt collar, and examined the body.
"This was done very neatly with one blow; and from behind."
Standing, he mimed the kill, more for his own clarification than for the sake of his brother who was standing nearby looking extremely unhappy.
"A hand went around his front like this, just to keep his arms out of the way. The other held the knife - left hand with the knife - and cut from ear to ear with one slice. Very deep. Cut almost to the bone. The vizier would have been dead in moments, and no chance to scream with his windpipe cut. It was very professional and the attacker was fast, silent and very strong. Not the job of a random killer, and not even the job of a soldier; we're trained for speed and efficiency, not subtlety. Kill and move on. A soldier doesn't make such careful blows. The culprit here is a man who's trained to do just this. Silent and instant."
Skiouros was suddenly next to him.
"But if he got the man from behind and by surprise, the woman could have screamed. Probably did. Why do away with him silently yet risk the woman screaming?"
"The sort of noises that probably come out of this place, no one would pay attention to her scream. A man's death scream, though, is different; that would draw unwanted attention."
He stepped back. "Yes, he killed the vizier first. Even took the time to lower him down to the bed on his back and didn't let him fall. Probably didn't want to risk incriminating blood spray on his clothes. He might well have remained completely clean throughout the attack, since he went in from behind." He glanced to the other end of the room. "As long as only his hands got bloody he could clean them in the bathwater."
"I don't think they'd get much cleaner" Skiouros noted sourly. "Come on."
Striding across the room, the younger brother stopped just within sight of the bathtub's grizzly contents and pointed.
"Tell me that's neat and professional, then."
Lykaion almost lost control of his gullet as he closed on the tub and its meaty soup.
"No. No assassination, that."
Skiouros nodded his agreement.
"But I have seen it's like before" Lykaion added.
"What?"
The older brother sighed. "Fighting the Mamluks across the channel in Anatolia. Some of their more fanatical men used to take their time when they came across isolated Christians. 'Course we had Christians in our army last year - mercenaries, you know? Venetian crossbowmen and suchlike. And when the fighting reached the worst point, the Mamluks were even poisoning wells in our villages to stop us resting there. We'd find our Venetian allies - ones that had been taken captive by the Egyptian bastards - stripped naked and cut to pieces, floating in the soured wells.
"You're saying this is the work of a Mamluk?" Skiouros asked quietly, his blood running cold as his memory dutifully furnished him with an image of the rich foreign merchant who had started this sequence of unpleasant events.
"More than likely."
Once more, Lykaion turned on his brother, a gleam in his eye that was somewhere between anger and desperation.
"Again, little brother, and for all our sakes, I'll ask whether there's anything you want to tell me?"
Skiouros trembled under the fierce gaze and almost broke.
"There is more, Lykaion, but I wish I didn't know it, and so will you if you get any deeper. I think we need to hand this over to the authorities and then move on."
The taller brother continued to glare for a moment, and finally nodded wearily.
"You might be right. This is going to cause enough problems. Perhaps you should have let the building burn. Too late now, though."
Turning, he strode towards the stairs.
"What are we going to do now, then?" Skiouros called quietly, hurrying after him.
"I'm going to return to barracks and report this. I'll tell them that a local vagrant drew my attention to the place - it's more or less the truth."
A joke it may have been, but Skiouros could hear no humour in the voice.
"And me?"
"You?" Lykaion barked, coming to such a sudden halt on the stairs that Skiouros almost walked into him. "You will lie low. Disappear entirely if you can. I won't mention you, so you should be free unless they turn anything up that drags you into it, depending on whatever it is you haven't told me. If I need you, I'll scratch my Greek name into the church wall, alright? Other than that, your part in this is done."
Skiouros nodded, somewhat too meekly for Lykaion's liking, suggesting that the younger man thought otherwise. Giving him a hard glare for good measure, the older of the two turned and marched
purposely down the stairs. At the bottom he paused and examined the front door, spotting the key in the lock.
"Come on. Out the back again."
Skiouros shook his head. "What's the point, now the front's open?"
"Because the fewer people who can testify to you even being here, the better. Now go out the back."
As Skiouros moved through the kitchen and stepped out of the back door into the alley, Lykaion followed him, pausing at the threshold.
"Can we meet again soon?" Skiouros asked hesitantly.
"Not if we can possibly avoid it. Now that I'm a full serving Janissary it's very difficult for me to find time to slip away, and I risk punishment detail every time. I don't know about you, but to me that doesn't seem worth it for an argument with a bloody-minded thief."
Skiouros sighed. Better to leave it there than to prove Lykaion right.
"Go. Watch the church wall, just in case."
Before the smaller brother could reply, Lykaion shut the door and slid the bolt across, sealing out both the cold world and his troublesome sibling. Turning back, he crossed the kitchen and then the front room, removing the key before leaving, then using it to seal up the house.
On the doorstep he paused for some time, breathing in fresh air in desperate gulps. Feeling like a child who has damaged a parent's precious possession and now faces the inevitable and uncomfortable confession, he made his way slowly across the city towards the barracks and his martinet officer.
"Show me the ring" Commander Hamza Bin Murad snapped in his usual fashion, holding out his hand flat and snapping his fingers irritably.
Lykaion, having only just finished working through his story, winced at the anger in the voice - more of it even than usual. Fumbling in the pouch at his belt, he withdrew the ring and dutifully placed it in his superior's palm.
Bin Murad rocked back in his seat, his hand coming up so that he could examine the ring closer in the dim light of his office. His ageing grey moustaches twitched, and his hard, well-worn eyes widened as he turned the ring over and examined the seal.
Thief's Tale Page 9
